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A Nine-to-five Affair
Jessica Steele


From nine to five it's strictly business…Emily Lawson has always put her much-loved grandmother before her job, and as a result she's been in heaps of trouble at work! It's crucial that she keeps her new job, but she just can't seem to stop arguing with Barden Cunningham, her infuriatingly attractive boss.But after hours, is romance on the agenda?Then things go from bad to worse! One evening whilst delivering an urgent report to Barden at home, Emily crashes her car and finds herself having to stay the night! Sharing an office with Barden is one thing, but it's quite another to share her boss's bedroom….







Jessica Steele is the much-loved author of over eighty novels.

Praise for some of Jessica’s books:

“Jessica Steele pens an unforgettable tale filled with vivid, lively characters, fabulous dialogue and a touching conflict.”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

“A Professional Marriage is a book to sit back and enjoy on the days that you want to bring joy to your heart and a smile to your face. It is a definite feel-good book.”

—www.writersunlimited.com

“Jessica Steele pens a lovely romance…with brilliant characters, charming scenes and an endearing premise”

—Romantic Times BOOKclub

Promise of a Family #3915


“We sleep together—and I’m still Mr. Cunningham?” Barden’s gray eyes had the light of devilment in them.

“Not in that context!” she protested. “We shared a room, that’s—” She broke off. It had to be said that he’d seen more of her, in the literal sense, than any man she was on first-name terms with.

“I really think, Emily—” he took over when she seemed to be floundering “—that we know each other well enough for you to use my first name.”


A Nine-To-Five Affair

Jessica Steele






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Jessica Steele lives in the county of Worcestershire with her superhusband, Peter, and their gorgeous Staffordshire bull terrier, Florence.

Any spare time is spent enjoying her three main hobbies: reading espionage novels, gardening (she has a great love of flowers) and playing golf. Any time left over is celebrated with her fourth hobby, shopping.

Jessica has a sister and two brothers, and they all, along with their spouses, often go on golfing holidays together.

Having traveled to various places on the globe researching background for her stories, there are many countries that she would like to revisit. Her most recent trip abroad was to Portugal, where she stayed in a lovely hotel close to her all-time-favorite golf course.

Jessica had no idea of being a writer, until one day Peter suggested she write a book. So she did. She has now written over eighty novels.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER ONE (#uff6a083b-617f-5118-baab-c02238a6c43a)

CHAPTER TWO (#u5bb3e89b-257e-58e7-98d3-3e0956ff9cf5)

CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE


SO MANY thoughts and emotions went through Emmie’s mind as she drove to the job interview that winter’s afternoon, chiefly how desperately she needed this position, and the tremendous hope that she would be successful in getting it. It didn’t matter that it was only temporary—probably a maximum of nine months—it paid extremely well and would afford her some financial breathing space.

The work involved as assistant PA, and then acting PA while Mr Barden Cunningham’s PA took maternity leave, would be very demanding, which accounted for the high salary. But, though Emmie had endured a blip in her career during this last year—well, several blips in actual fact—she knew, previous to that, her work record was exemplary.

Her secretarial training had been first class, and she had thought that, after three years with Usher Trading, she was really going places, and that she was due to be promoted as PA to one of the directors—only to go into work one Tuesday morning to learn, with utter astonishment, that the firm had folded. Usher Trading had, with a mile-long list of creditors, ceased trading.

It had not been her only shock that month. She had still been getting over her astonishment that, overnight, or so it seemed, Usher Trading had gone under, when her stepfather had suffered a heart attack and had died. The fact that she’d been without a job or financial security had been neither here nor there to her then. She had lovedAlec Whitford as a daughter, and now he was gone.

Emmie clearly remembered her own father. He had been a scientist dedicated to his work, and for a lot of the time had seemed to be in a world of his own. He had also died, in some experiment that had gone wrong, when she had been ten years old.

Her life had been different then, Emmie recalled. Her family had lived in an elegant house in Berkshire and had been very comfortably off—sufficiently so for her mother to be able to indulge her love of antiques.

They’d had a whole houseful of beautiful furniture when, two years after her husband’s death, her mother had married Alec Whitford. Alec had been a total contrast with Emmie’s father. Alec had loved to laugh, and had been full of life, but—he hadn’t liked work.

Though it hadn’t been until after her mother’s death three years later, in one of those freak garden machinery accidents that were never supposed to happen, that Emmie had begun to have any inkling that she and Alec were not financially sound.

She had been fifteen then. ‘Shall I get a job, Alec?’ she’d asked him, her thoughts on evening and weekend work.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart,’ he’d said. ‘We’ll sell something.’

By the time she was eighteen, and had completed a most meticulous business training, there hadn’t been much left to sell. By then Emmie had grown up fast to value security above all else. She’d loved her stepfather, and wouldn’t have had him be any different, but he had seemed to make an art out of spending. She’d rather thought then—and later knew—that he was having a one-sided affair with his bookmaker—Alec doing the giving, his bookmaker taking.

Emmie’s mother had died intestate, so the house had passed to Alec. By that time Alec’s mother, a formidable if slightly unconventional woman, had been living with them. Hannah Whitford had turned eighty, but was as sharp as a tack—and didn’t suffer fools gladly. Emmie had calculated that she must be some kind of step-grandmother to her, but when out of respect she’d addressed her as Mrs Whitford, the thin, straight, white-haired woman had advised her that, since she drew the line at being called ‘Granny’, Emmie could call her Aunt Hannah.

So Aunt Hannah she had become. She had her own private pension—but, having already ‘lent’ her son her savings, had declined to let him see any of her pension. ‘If you’re that hard up,’ she’d told him forthrightly when he’d come on the scrounge, ‘sell the house!’

So he had. And they’d moved to a three-bedroomed rented apartment in a very nice area of London. And Emmie had started work at Usher Trading. All in all, given that Emmie had learned to more and more value her security, she had come to love Aunt Hannah too, and the next three years had passed very pleasantly.

And then Emmie had been made redundant and dear Alec had died. About that time, when Emmie had been trying to get a grip on things, she’d become startled to realise that Aunt Hannah was occasionally losing her grip a little!

At first Emmie had put it down to the fact that, for all Alec’s mother had used to tear him off a strip from time to time, she had dearly loved him—and had lost him. Perhaps, when she had come to terms with her grief, she would be her old self again.

In the meantime, Emmie had found herself a new job with a firm of insurance brokers—and managed to hold it down for six weeks! Then her womanising boss, not content with the extramarital affair he was having—the phone calls she’d overheard had spoken volumes—had had the utter nerve, after many ignored hints, to one day openly proposition her! That was when Emmie had discovered she was quite good in the tearing-off-a-strip department herself. Because, though it had been entirely unplanned, she’d been goaded beyond all possibility of suffering her new employer’s lecherous advances any longer, she’d let fly with her tongue—and found herself out of a job.

She’d consoled herself that she didn’t want to work there anyway. And found herself another job. It had taken her ten weeks to lose it—this time for bad time-keeping. And it was true, her time-keeping had become appalling. But Aunt Hannah hadn’t seemed to want to get out of bed in the morning any more and, while it had been no problem to take her breakfast in bed, Emmie had found she didn’t love her work well enough to leave the apartment until she was sure Aunt Hannah was up and about.

Her third job after being made redundant from Usher Trading had lasted four months. It hadn’t paid as well, but it had been nearer to her home, which had meant she hadn’t had to leave for work so early. All had seemed to be well, until her employer’s son had come home from abroad and, obviously believing himself to be irresistible, alternated between being overbearingly officious with her or, despite the fact he had a lovely wife and children, making suggestive, sickening remarks about how good he could be to her if she’d let him.

Emmie hadn’t known how much more she could take, but supposed that working for fatherly Mr Denby at Usher Trading had rather sheltered her from the womanising types lurking out there. She’d recognised she was a novice at knowing how to handle them, and had been near to exploding again one day, when a call had come through from the local police station. Apparently they had a Mrs Hannah Whitford there, who seemed a little confused.

‘I’m on my way!’ Emmie exclaimed, holding down panic, grabbing up her bag, car keys at the ready.

‘Where are you going?’ Kenneth Junior demanded.

‘Can’t stop!’

‘Your job?’ he warned threateningly.

‘It’s yours—with my compliments,’ she told him absently. The fact that she’d just walked out was the least of her worries just then. She made it to the police station in record time. ‘Mrs Whitford?’ she enquired of the man at the front desk.

‘She’s having a cup of tea with one of the WPCs,’ he replied, and explained how the elderly lady had been found wandering the streets in her bedroom slippers and seemed distressed because she couldn’t remember where she lived.

‘Oh, the poor love!’ Emmie cried.

‘She’s all right now,’ the police officer soothed. ‘Fortunately she had her handbag with her, and we were able to find your office telephone number in her spectacle case.’

‘Oh, thank goodness I thought to jot it down!’ Emmie’s exclamation was heartfelt. She’d only put it in Aunt Hannah’s spectacle case because she’d known the dear soul would look first for her glasses before she thought to look for her phone number.

‘Has Mrs Whitford been—er—forgetful for very long?’ the policeman asked in a kindly fashion. Emmie explained how, if Aunt Hannah had, it was only recently, and only since she had lost her son earlier in the year. Whereupon, on learning that Emmie was away from the apartment for most of the day, the officer tentatively suggested that it might be an idea to consider establishing Mrs Whitford in a residential home.

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly!’ was Emmie’s initial shocked reaction. ‘She would hate it!’ And, getting over her shock a little, she asked, ‘Was she very upset when you found her?’

‘Upset—confused, distressed—and,’ he added with a small smile, ‘just a little aggressive.’

‘Oh, dear,’ Emmie mumbled feebly. But, fully aware that Aunt Hannah had a tart tongue when the mood took her, was in no mind to have Alec’s mother ‘established’ in a residential home. Even if, while waiting for Aunt Hannah, the kindly policeman did suggest to her not to dismiss the notion out of hand, that residential homes weren’t jails, and that if those in charge knew where residents were, they were quite at liberty to come and go as they pleased. For unintentional but added weight, he mentioned that while indoors someone was there all the time to keep an eye on residents, and see to it that they had their lunch.

Hannah Whitford suddenly appeared from nowhere. ‘All this fuss!’ she snapped shortly, quite back to normal, but Emmie, who knew her well, knew that she was more embarrassed than cross. ‘Have you got your car outside?’

Emmie was not about to give the police officer’s ‘residential home’ suggestion another thought. But Aunt Hannah, either having had a similar conversation with the woman police constable who’d looked after her, or having done some serious thinking of her own, brought the subject up herself. It was around lunchtime the following day that, having been deep in thought, Aunt Hannah suddenly seemed to realise that Emmie was not at work.

‘What are you doing home?’ she demanded in her forthright way.

‘I thought I’d look for another job,’ Emmie replied, aware that, with yesterday’s confusion behind her, Aunt Hannah was getting back to being as sharp as she had ever been.

‘Because of me.’

It was a statement, and despite Emmie telling her that she would have walked out of her job anyway, without receiving the phone call from the police station, Aunt Hannah would not have it.

Nor would she countenance—despite Emmie’s protestation—that she should become a burden to her step-granddaughter. But it was only when Emmie saw that she was growing extremely agitated that she agreed—more in the hope of calming her down than anything—to investigate the possibility of her step-grandmother moving to a residential home.

Aunt Hannah, as Emmie later realised—and might have known—was not prepared to stop at mere investigation. So they set off doing the rounds of residential homes. The first one they looked at, Keswick House, was in actual fact a very pleasant surprise. Light and airy, with its residents seemingly busy with their own pursuits, and a general cheerful atmosphere about the place. All residents were encouraged to bring their own furniture. There was, however, one very big drawback—it was expensive. To stay there was going to take all of Mrs Whitford’s income and more.

With Aunt Hannah not ready to give up the idea, they began to look at other establishments. By then Emmie was starting to realise that, if she herself was out all day—as she would be when she found herself a new job—perhaps as a legacy of when Aunt Hannah had forgotten where she lived that day, the old lady would be frightened and nervous of being on her own. Aunt Hannah, Emmie all at once knew, needed to feel safe.

But, in adjusting to the fact that the dear soul was determined to move out, Emmie was not prepared to let her go and live just anywhere. The trouble was, though, that while one or two of the places they looked at were adequate, there were others that Emmie would not dream of allowing her step-grandmother to move to.

Emmie couldn’t bear the thought that Aunt Hannah might feel frightened and unsafe in their apartment. She blamed herself that, when clearly Aunt Hannah needed company, she had left her on her own for so many hours during the day. But—Emmie had to work.

It wasn’t until the following day, when Aunt Hannah had another spell of confusion—and came out of it looking very bewildered—that Emmie knew for sure what had to be done. How, for goodness’ sake, would Aunt Hannah have coped if she’d been out at work? Aunt Hannah had to feel safe! Emmie rang Lisa Browne, the owner of Keswick House.

A week later, on the day before Emmie started her new job, Mrs Whitford moved into Keswick House. Fortunately, what with packing her personal treasures and looking forward to the move, she had entirely forgotten the stated fee required, and was happy to sign anything Emmie gave her and to leave all the paperwork to her step-granddaughter. Two weeks after that Emmie moved out of the well-maintained three-bedroomed apartment that had been the family home, to a two-bedroomed flat in a much less salubrious area.

Emmie ignored the peeling paint and the rotting woodwork of the front door, and strove to think positively. The house was old; what did she expect? Anyhow, because of its age, it would set off her few remaining pieces of antique furniture a treat. Well, it would when she’d stripped the walls and redecorated. And also, don’t forget, it was a ground-floor flat—ideal for when Aunt Hannah, who wasn’t so good with stairs, came to stay. As an extra bonus, it was only half the rent of the former apartment, so, providing she hung on to her new job at Smythe and Wood International, she could just about scrape up the shortfall required to keep Aunt Hannah at Keswick House.

A month later, however, and Emmie was having a hard time in staying optimistic. Her new flat was looking super. Newly decorated, with carpets and curtains as well as her mother’s good quality furniture, which had transformed it. Emmie had become friends with Adrian Payne, the man who had the upstairs flat. Non-licentious Adrian, who was true to his ex-live-in-girlfriend Tina, had in part restored her faith in men.

Not completely, however. For her new boss, Clive Norris, turned out to be the womanising type she had just about had enough of. Her job at Smythe and Wood, it had to be said, was just not working out. While the tasks were no problem—she had a quick brain and absorbed instruction easily—she couldn’t help wondering what was wrong with some of these men that they had to touch her, to hint—more than hint in some cases—that they’d quite care to be more than boss-PA-friendly.

Or, was it her? She didn’t think so. She was sure she didn’t go around giving off come hither signals. She knew she hadn’t been at the back of the queue when looks had been handed out. Alec had once declared she was utterly beautiful, but he had been in one of his happy moods. Though she had taken herself off to the mirror to check. Slender, five feet eight in bare feet, she had studied her flawless complexion, her straight, shoulder-length black hair, and looked into her liquid brown eyes. And then grinned, revealing perfect white teeth, and concluded that her stepfather had been just a little bit biased in her favour.

All this came back to her now, as she pulled into the car park of Progress Engineering for her interview. She was early. Emmie sat in her car, reflecting how disastrous everything had been just lately.

Needing the money she had doggedly stuck it out at Smythe and Wood, but she hadn’t liked working for Clive Norris. Nor, to start with, had Aunt Hannah settled at Keswick House very easily. She disliked rules, and either by accident or design forgot to note in the ‘Out’ book where she was going when she went for a morning’s short walk.

She invariably returned before anyone started to get anxious, but Emmie had received several phone calls to say Mrs Whitford had disappeared without saying where she was going, and had been absent some hours now, and they were starting to be concerned that she hadn’t returned. Emmie had given Aunt Hannah a key to the new flat, and on that first occasion Emmie had to leave her office and hare back to the flat—Aunt Hannah hadn’t been there. Thinking that perhaps Aunt Hannah might have returned to their old apartment, Emmie had rushed there, and with overwhelming relief had found her there, chatting, as nice as you please, to one of their former neighbours.

Emmie had Aunt Hannah to stay with her at the weekends, yet, despite her becoming familiar with the new area, whenever her step-grandmother did her disappearing act from Keswick House it was never to Emmie’s new flat in the run-down area that she made for, but always their previous apartment.

But now, two and a half months after moving into Keswick House, Aunt Hannah seemed to have settled down. In fact, Emmie hadn’t had to have any unexpected time off in the last two weeks. Until yesterday. She’d had Aunt Hannah with her for an extended weekend, and the plan had been to return her to Keswick House, five miles away, on Monday morning. But Emmie had overlooked the fact that her step-grandmother was never in any hurry to start her day, the result being that Emmie had been an hour late in getting to work yesterday.

She always worked late to make up for any time she had off. But yesterday, unfortunately, so too had Clive Norris.

‘We could be doing better things than this,’ he hinted, coming over and causing her to have to move away from the filing cabinet by which she was standing. ‘Come and have a drink with me,’ he went on, managing to make it sound more suggestive than a suggestion as he backed her into a corner.

‘No, thanks,’ Emmie replied, coolly but politely—and she saw Clive’s expression change.

He didn’t like it. ‘You’re too stuck-up by half,’ he said nastily. ‘You want taking down a peg!’ he went on resentfully. And while she stood there feeling uncomfortable, wishing he’d go home and leave her in peace, to her absolute amazement the next thing she knew was that he made a grab for her and tried to kiss her.

His wet, lascivious lips made her heave. She wasn’t thinking by then, but reacting—and her reaction was swift and immediate. She hit him with full force, and compounded that by giving him a furious push away from her. He ended up on the floor—looking ridiculous. He didn’t like that either.

She stepped over him, grabbing up her coat and her bag. ‘Goodnight!’ she exploded, already on her way.

‘Don’t come back!’ he screamed after her. He should be so lucky!

An hour later she calmed down, knowing that while she couldn’t regret what she had done at the same time she simply couldn’t afford to have done it. Not that she was going to ask for her job back. The thought of working for Clive Norris again made her shudder.

There had been just one letter in the post on Tuesday morning. She’d opened it and very nearly weakened in her resolve not to ask for her job back. Her letter was from Keswick House. One of the larger rooms had become available and Mrs Whitford had asked to transfer—would that be in order? Emmie had read on down, taking in the increased charge of the room. Oh, heavens, she couldn’t afford it; she really couldn’t. Well, not unless she managed to find a much better-paid job than the one she’d just walked out of. Clearly Aunt Hannah just hadn’t taken into consideration when deciding that she’d like to move to a larger room that it would be more expensive.

Emmie went out and bought a paper and scanned the Situations Vacant column. One job had stood out from all the rest—assistant and then acting PA. The salary alone suggested it would be to someone very high up. She could do it, she knew that she could, and the salary named was beyond her wildest imaginings. The only snag was that the post was to cover maternity leave, and as such was only temporary. Emmie put the paper aside—then picked it up again as it dawned on her that so far over these last twelve months the longest she’d stayed anywhere had been four months. To work somewhere while covering maternity absence was starting to sound more like permanence to her. Besides which, if she had this sort of a salary coming in Aunt Hannah could move into the larger room and would perhaps be even more settled.

And, anyhow, Progress Engineering was no twopenny-half-penny firm. The company were well-known in the mechanical and electronic engineering field. Surely, if she proved herself as good as Mr Denby had always said she was, might they find a niche for her within the organisation when the PA returned from maternity leave?

First, though, get the job. Hoping against hope that anyone better qualified would be more career-minded than to want to apply for a temporary job, Emmie picked up the phone and dialled. ‘You’re available straight away?’ the head of Human Resources to whom she spoke had enquired efficiently.

‘That’s correct,’ she’d answered, having not yet worked out what reason she was going to give for leaving her previous employer.

‘Can you come and see me this afternoon?’

My word—they didn’t hang about at Progress Engineering! ‘Yes, of course,’ she’d replied.

And now she discovered, as she sat before Mr Garratt, that the post she was applying for was not only as assistant and acting PA, but to Mr Barden Cunningham, the head of the whole conglomerate no less! The reason they weren’t hanging about getting someone in was because Dawn Obrey, who was in around the fifth month of her pregnancy, was starting to have a few complications which, together with her antenatal appointments, meant she was out of the office quite a lot—sometimes very unexpectedly.

‘Which, as you can appreciate—’ Mr Garratt smiled ‘—is not always so convenient in the running of an extremely busy office. We’ve been able to switch people from other departments, of course, but Mr Cunningham prefers his own team.’

‘That’s quite understandable, from a continuity standpoint,’ Emmie put in, having stretched the truth a mile by saying she had taken temporary jobs this past year to gain experience in many branches of industry. She had felt that her interview was going well, but owned to feeling a little let down when, the interview over, Mr Garratt stood up and, shaking her hand, advised her that he had two other candidates to see, but would be in touch very quickly.

Emmie drove home from her interview feeling very despondent. She hadn’t known that the job was as PA to the head of the whole outfit. Barden Cunningham would want someone older; she was sure of it. Which was unfair, because she was good at her job; she knew she was.

By the time she reached her flat Emmie was convinced that she hadn’t a hope of being taken on by Barden Cunningham. And though she knew that she should straight away ring Keswick House, and give some kind of reason why Aunt Hannah should not move into a larger room, somehow she could not.

Mr Garratt had said he would be in touch very quickly, but Emmie saw little point in holding her breath or looking forward to opening tomorrow’s post. She knew how it would read: ‘Thank you very much for attending for interview, but…’

A few hours later Emmie was again scanning the Situations column when the phone rang. Aunt Hannah had a phone in her room, but it wouldn’t be her because as far as she knew Emmie was out at work. Emmie picked up the phone, ‘Hello?’ she answered pleasantly, trying not to panic that it might be Lisa Browne or one of the care assistants ringing to say Mrs Whitford had gone missing.

There was a small silence, then, ’emily Lawson?’ queried a rather nice all-male voice.

‘Speaking,’ she answered carefully.

‘Barden Cunningham,’ he introduced himself—and Emmie only just managed to hold back a gasp of shock.

‘Oh, hello,’ she said, and cringed—she’d already said hello once!

He came straight to the point. ‘I should like to see you Friday afternoon. Are you free?’

‘Yes, of course,’ she answered promptly, her heartbeat starting to pick up with excitement. ‘What time would suit you?’

‘Four-thirty,’ he replied. ‘Until then,’ he added, and rang off—and Emmie’s face broke out into one huge grin. She had an interview with no less a person than the top man himself!

She was still grinning ten minutes later. Mr Garratt had said he would be in touch very quickly—indirectly, he had been. He must have reported back to his employer the moment he had concluded all interviews. And, not waiting for mail to reach her, Barden Cunningham had phoned her within a very short space of time.

Which told her two things. One, that despite there being other candidates she was still in there with a chance. The other, that Progress Engineering were anxious to fill the temporary vacancy with all speed. Though from what Mr Garratt had said she thought she knew that already. Oh, roll on Friday; the suspense was unbearable.

Adrian Payne asked her to go out with him for a bite to eat on Thursday evening, but Emmie put him off. She wanted to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next day for her interview, and intended to have an early night.

She was in frequent telephone contact with Aunt Hannah, but had not discussed her aunt’s desire to move into a larger room, nor had she yet answered the letter from Lisa Browne at Keswick House. She knew, however, that she would have to ring Lisa Browne soon; courtesy if nothing else meant she should give some indication of whether or not Aunt Hannah could move. But pride, Emmie supposed, decreed that no one should know how desperately hard up she was but herself.

She was again early for her interview on Friday, and sat in her car for some minutes composing herself. She had on her best all wool charcoal-grey business suit, her crisp white shirt ironed immaculately.

She stepped from her car, knowing that she looked the part of a cool, efficient PA in her neat two-and-a-half-inch heels, but felt glad that no one could know of the nervous commotion going on inside her. So much depended on this interview—and its outcome.

‘My name’s Emily Lawson. I’ve an appointment with Mr Cunningham at four-thirty,’ she told the smart woman on the reception desk.

Emmie rode up in the lift, trying to stifle her nerves, desperate to make a good impression and hoping against hope that Mr Cunningham would turn out to be fatherly, like old Mr Denby. He hadn’t sounded particularly fatherly over the phone, though.

Oh, she did so hope he was not another womaniser! She couldn’t be that unlucky yet again, could she? Emmie pulled her mind away from such thoughts. She must concentrate only on this interview and Aunt Hannah, and the fact that if she was successful this afternoon Aunt Hannah could move into the double room she preferred.

Emmie made a vow there and then that, for Aunt Hannah’s sake, if her prospective employer was yet another of the Casanova types she would keep a tight rein on her new-found temper. To do so would also mean that she kept her security—always supposing she was lucky enough to get the job. Having spent many years in a financially uncertain household, security was now more important to her than ever. She had to be self-reliant; she had no family but Aunt Hannah. And, having Aunt Hannah to look out for, Emmie knew she must think only of her career and, if all went well, the high salary being offered, which would afford both her and Aunt Hannah that security.

She was worrying needlessly, Emmie considered bracingly as she stepped out of the lift. This was a very different sort of company from the one she had walked out of on Monday—true, she had been told not to come back. But the very air about this place was vastly more professional.

Emmie found the door she was looking for, tapped on it lightly and went in. A pale but pretty pregnant woman somewhere in her early thirties looked up. ’emily Lawson?’ she enquired.

‘Am I too early?’ Emmie’s hopes suffered a bit of a dent. He’d want someone older; she felt sure of it.

‘Not at all,’ Dawn Obrey responded with a smile. And, leaving her chair, she went on, ‘Reception rang to say you were on your way up. Mr Cunningham will see you now.’

Emmie flicked a hasty glance to the clock on the office wall, saw with relief that there were a few minutes to go before four-thirty and that neither her car clock nor her watch had played her false, and followed the PA over to a door which connected into another office.

‘Miss Lawson,’ the PA announced, and as Emmie went forward into the other room Dawn Obrey retreated and closed the door.

‘Come in. Take a seat,’ Barden Cunningham invited pleasantly, leaving his seat and shaking hands with her.

Ten out of ten for manners, Emmie noted with one part of her brain, while with another part she saw that Barden Cunningham was not old or fatherly, but was somewhere in his middle thirties. He was tall, had fairish hair and grey no-nonsense sort of eyes, but—and here was the minus—he was seriously good-looking. In her recent experience good-looking men were apt to think they were God’s gift to women—and Barden Cunningham was more good-looking than most.

Emmie took a seat on one side of the desk and he resumed his seat on the other. His desk was clear, which indicated to her that he wouldn’t be hanging about to start his weekend once this interview was over. Was she the last candidate?

She looked across at him and found he was studying her. She met his look, her large brown eyes steady, wishing she could read his mind, know what he was thinking. ‘You’re young,’ he said. Was he accusing? He had obviously scanned the application form she had been asked to complete so knew she was twenty-two.

‘I’m good,’ she replied—this was no time to be modest!

He looked at her shrewdly, ‘You trained at…’ he began, and the interview was under way. His questions about her work experience, her views on confidentiality, were all clear, and most professional. ‘What about your diplomacy skills?’ he wanted to know.

Emmie knew that great tact was sometimes needed when dealing with awkward phone calls or difficult people. Now didn’t seem the time to mention that earlier in the week diplomacy had gone by the board when she’d belted her previous boss and left him sprawled on the floor.

‘Very good,’ she answered, looking him in the eye. Well, they were—normally. Anybody who made a grab for her the way Clive Norris had, deserved what they got in her book. Barden Cunningham asked one or two more pertinent questions with regard to her general business knowledge, which she felt she answered more than adequately. ‘When I worked at Usher Trading, communication skills were…’ She went to expand when he stayed silent, only to be interrupted.

‘Ah, yes, Usher Trading—they went into liquidation about a year ago,’ he cut in—just as though it was her fault! As if she had been personally responsible!

Emmie clamped down hard on a small spurt of anger. Steady, steady, she needed this job. Perhaps he was just testing her to see how she reacted to the odd uncalled-for comment.

‘Unfortunately, that’s true,’ she replied, and gave him the benefit of her full smile—which had once been called ravishing.

He was unimpressed. He looked at her, his eyes flicking from her eyes to her mouth and back to her eyes. He paused for a moment before, questions on her abilities seemingly over, he went on to refer to her work record over the past year. She’d had small hope that he would not do so. But, until she knew if this man was in the same womanising mould, Emmie didn’t think she would be doing herself any favours if she gave the true reasons for her previous ‘temporary’ employment.

‘As I mentioned to Mr Garratt—’ she started down the path of untruth without falter ‘—I felt, having worked for the same firm for three years, that I should widen my work experience.’ Usher Trading were no longer in existence, but if he wrote elsewhere for references—she was dead!

‘Which is why you applied for this temporary post?’

There weren’t any flies on him! ‘I’m very keen to make a career in PA work,’ she answered.

‘You live with your parents?’ he enquired out of the blue. She wasn’t ready for it, and for a brief second felt unexpectedly choked.

She looked quickly down at her lap, swallowed, and then answered, ‘My parents are dead.’

His expression softened marginally. ‘That’s tough,’ he said gently. But after a moment he was back to being the interrogator. ‘As I’m sure Mr Garratt mentioned, Mrs Obrey, my PA, is having an atrocious time of it at the moment. While in normal circumstances she would frequently accompany me when I need to visit our various other concerns, she isn’t up to being driven around the country. That role will now fall to her assistant.’ He fixed her with his straight no-nonsense look. ‘Would that be a problem?’

Emmie shook her head. ‘Not at all,’ she answered unhesitatingly, hoping with all she had that Aunt Hannah’s forgetful perambulations were a thing of the past. She’d been so good lately.

‘It could be that I’d be late getting back to London,’ Barden Cunningham stressed—and, those direct eyes on her still, he went on, ‘You have no commitments?’

Emmie hesitated, but not for long. She guessed he meant was she living with anyone. Now, if she was going to confide in him about Aunt Hannah, was the time to do so. ‘None at all,’ she replied, again managing to look him in the eye. Well, her security was on the line here—her chances of getting this job would go cascading down the drain if he had so much as an inkling of her previous bad time-keeping and the erratic work hours she’d kept.

‘You’d have no problem working extra hours?’

Her heart lifted—the fact that this was turning out to be no cursory interview gave her confidence that she was still in there with a chance. ‘Working extra hours, working late has never been a problem,’ she replied, back on the honesty track, and glad that she was.

‘You were called on to work late in your other temporary job?’ he questioned, before she’d barely finished speaking—was he sharp or was he sharp!

‘I never liked to go home before I’d got everything cleared,’ she answered—oh, grief, that sounded smug and self-satisfied! Better, though, than telling him she’d regarded her jobs more as permanent than temporary during her short stays there.

Barden Cunningham had very few other questions he wanted to ask, and then he caused her hopes to go sky-high. ‘When would you be available to start?’ he wanted to know.

‘Straight away,’ she answered promptly.

‘You’ve nothing else lined up for Monday?’

Oh, crumbs—had she answered too promptly? Emmie took a deep and steadying breath and then, her innate honesty rushed to the fore. ‘Well, to be quite frank, I was hoping this interview would go well enough for me not to need to apply for anything else.’

Again Emmie wished she could have a clue as to what he was thinking. But he was giving nothing away as he sat and stared at her. Then, after some long moments, ‘You want the job?’ he enquired.

He’d never know how much. She swallowed down the word ‘desperately’ and changed it to, ‘Very much.’

Barden Cunningham’s eyes searched her face for perhaps another couple of seconds. Then slowly he smiled, and it was the most wonderful smile she had ever seen. But better than that were the words that followed, for, as he stood up, indicating the interview was over, he said, ‘Then, since you’re going to be working with her for a while, you’d better come and have a chat to Dawn.’

‘I’ve got the job?’ she asked, hardly daring to believe it.

‘Congratulations,’ he said, and shook her hand.




CHAPTER TWO


FEBRUARY was on its way out and they were in the throes of some quite dreadful weather. Last week it had seemed to rain non-stop. Today it had gone colder, and snow was threatened. Emmie had not slept well, and got out of bed that Wednesday morning feeling oddly despondent. Oh, buck your ideas up, do. A month ago she had been overjoyed that she’d actually managed to be offered the job of assistant, shortly to be acting, PA to Mr Barden Cunningham. So—what had changed?

Emmie padded around her flat, trying to pin-point why she felt so—well, not exactly dissatisfied with her lot, but certainly sort of restless, out of sorts about something.

Which was odd, because she no longer had any worries about her step-grandmother. Aunt Hannah was now cheerfully established in the double room she had so wanted, and was more settled than Emmie could have hoped. Indeed, so content did Aunt Hannah seem that Emmie realised how right she had been to think it was important to the dear soul to feel safe during the long hours while Emmie was away at work. Safely ensconced in Keswick House, gradually, bit by bit, Aunt Hannah’s confidence was returning. Her confidence—and her spirit of independence. Twice in the last month Aunt Hannah had declined to stay with Emmie for the weekend—though she had permitted Emmie to collect her for Sunday tea.

So it wasn’t on Aunt Hannah’s account that she felt so unsettled, Emmie decided. Her thoughts turned to her job, and how, without bothering to take up references—clearly he was a man confident in his own judgement, and that had been one tremendous worrying hurdle out of the way—Barden Cunningham had appointed her.

She had been working at the head office of Progress Engineering for four weeks and two days now, and loved the work. Had, in fact, taken to it like a duck to water. Sometimes she worked under pressure but she absorbed it, enjoyed the challenge—and felt that she did well enough that her employer could not have one single solitary complaint about her output.

She got on exceedingly well with Dawn and was glad to be of help to her whenever she could, because, as well as being a thoroughly nice person, Dawn was not having a very easy pregnancy at all. ‘I thought morning sickness was something that happened early on—not now,’ Dawn had sighed only yesterday, after yet another visit to the ladies’ room.

‘Why not go home? There’s nothing here I can’t cope with,’ Emmie had urged.

‘I’ll stick it out,’ Dawn had said bravely. ‘I’m having tomorrow afternoon off for an antenatal appointment, as you know. Thanks all the same, Emmie.’

Dawn had asked her that first Monday if she was called Emily or if there was another name she was known by. ‘I’ve been called Emmie for as long as I can remember,’ she’d answered, and had been Emmie to all at Progress Engineering since then.

So, Emmie went back to trying to find the root cause of what was making her so restless. She had no worries about Aunt Hannah now, she liked her job and she liked Dawn, and everything else was ticking along nicely. So why did she feel…?

Her thoughts suddenly faltered. Everybody at Progress Engineering called her Emmie—except him! To him, she was still Emily. She wasn’t terribly sure quite when Barden Cunningham had become him. She had quite liked him during those first few hours of working for him. That was before she had taken the first of his May-I-speak-with-Barden-please-Paula-here-type calls.

‘Do I put Paula through?’ she’d whispered to Dawn.

There had followed, over the next few weeks, Ingrid, Sarah, and a whole host of other females—it was a wonder to Emmie that he ever got any work done. But he did. That was the bitter pill. She couldn’t fault him; given that—wouldn’t you know, another wretched womaniser—he took time out to answer his calls, the amount of work he turned out was staggering.

‘He’s not married, then?’ Emmie had asked Dawn, knowing she was going to hate him like the devil if he were.

Dawn had shaken her head. ‘Why limit yourself to one pudding when you can have the whole dessert trolley?’

Emmie had managed a smile, but she’d had her fill of womanisers. She’d been sure, however, to keep her feelings well hidden, but happened to be in his office when a female she hadn’t so far come across had telephoned him.

‘Claudia!’ he’d exclaimed with pleasure. And, charming the socks off Claudia—Emmie didn’t want to know what else he charmed off her—he’d kept Emmie waiting while he dallied with his new love.

‘If you’d just sign these papers for me!’ Emmie had requested crisply, when he’d at last finished his call.

She’d ignored his raised eyebrow, that look that said, Who the blazes do you think you are? ‘Anything else?’ he’d asked sarcastically, and Emmie had felt sorely inclined to give him a taste of what she’d given Clive Norris.

‘No, thank you,’ she’d replied politely, if a shade aloofly, and returned to her desk. Men!

True, he hadn’t attempted the womanising bit with her. Let him try! Not that she wanted him to. Heaven forbid! It irked, though, in some strange way that he still called her Emily, even though she knew for a fact that to him, Dawn always referred to her as Emmie.

Realising she was getting all huffy and puffy over nothing, Emmie got ready to face the day and drove herself to work. The morning went well, and Dawn went off at lunchtime to keep her hospital appointment.

Barden Cunningham was out of the office for the first hour of that afternoon, and Emmie quite enjoyed the challenge of being left in sole charge of the office. Her enjoyment, however, was somewhat dimmed by a telephone call she took around two-thirty.

‘Mr Cunningham’s office,’ she said into the mouthpiece, on picking up the phone.

‘Roberta Short,’ the caller announced herself. ‘That’s Emmie, isn’t it?’ See—even Cunningham’s friends knew she was called Emmie!

‘Yes,’ she answered, a smile in her voice. She liked Roberta Short, a striking woman in her early thirties. Emmie had met her and her husband, a man in his late forties, when they had called in to see her employer one day. ‘I’m afraid Mr Cunningham isn’t in.’

‘Oh, drat! I particularly wanted to catch him.’

‘May I get him to call you?’ Emmie offered—and felt her blood go cold at Roberta Short’s panicky reply.

‘Lord, no!’ she squeaked. ‘Neville mustn’t know I’m phoning Barden. I’ve an idea he already suspects—’ She broke off. ‘Oh, help, Neville’s coming in…He mustn’t find out…’ The line went dead.

Slowly, feeling stunned, Emmie replaced her phone. No, she’d got it wrong. That call just now didn’t really imply what she’d thought it might. Neville Short was Barden Cunningham’s friend, for heaven’s sake! Just because Cunningham was a womaniser of the first order, it didn’t follow that even married women weren’t safe from him. Emmie felt all churned up inside. Why didn’t it? He had charm by the truckload—no woman was safe from him. Well, save for her, and she was sure that didn’t bother her in the smallest degree!

But—his friend’s wife? No! Emmie got on with some work, but time and again those words ‘I’ve an idea he already suspects’ and ‘Neville’s coming in…He mustn’t find out…’ before Roberta Short had abruptly ended her call returned to haunt her.

Ignore it. It’s nothing to do with you even if he is having an affair with his friend’s wife. Two-timing her too with Claudia whatever-her-name-was, who’d phoned him last week. The man was an out and out monster! Men like him wanted locking up!

The sound of the connecting door to the next office opening told her that the object of her sweet thoughts was back. Who had he been extending his lunch with? she’d like to know. Claudia? Paula?

Emmie looked up. ‘Any messages?’ Barden Cunningham wanted to know.

‘Mrs Neville Short rang,’ Emmie replied. ‘She didn’t want to leave a message.’

‘She’ll ring again, I expect.’

My stars! How about that for confidence? Though, since the diabolical hound most likely knew that Neville Short was at home, he wouldn’t be likely to ring Roberta while her husband was there. Emmie concentrated solely on being an efficient PA, and then told her employer of a business enquiry she’d taken before he went back to his own office and closed the door. She carried on with what she had been doing.

It was just around half past three when her intercom went. ‘Come in, Emily, please,’ her employer instructed.

Certainly, your libertine-ness! Without a word Emmie picked up her pad and went in. And for the next half an hour she took dictation or jotted down his instructions. She was still writing when the phone in her office rang.

Cunningham indicated she should stay where she was, and, reaching for the phone on his desk, pressed the appropriate button. ‘Cunningham,’ he said, and then there was a smile there in his voice as his caller announced herself. ‘Roberta! You cunning vixen, how’s it going?’ he asked.

Emmie didn’t like it. A kind of sickness hit her, and she wanted to dash out of there. She made to leave—she could come back later, when he’d finished chatting up the ‘cunning vixen’. Cunning, no doubt, because she was successfully fooling her husband! But Barden Cunningham motioned her to sit down again. All too obviously he didn’t give a damn that Emmie overheard his philandering phone calls. Why couldn’t he conduct his wretched affair outside business hours?

She had no idea what Roberta’s replies were, but what Cunningham was saying didn’t leave Emmie in very much doubt that the conclusions she’d drawn were correct.

‘You’re worrying too much!’ Cunningham teased. ‘I promise you he’s not likely to divorce you.’

Grief—how was that for confident! Even if Neville Short did find out about the affair, the poor chap so loved his wife he would never divorce her. Barden Cunningham was taking advantage of that! Locking up! He should be put down—preferably painfully! The call was coming to an end.

‘I’ll somehow manage to snatch a few moments with you tomorrow night at the theatre,’ Barden promised. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult.’

There was a pause as Roberta replied—and Emmie started to get angry. She knew full well that it was nothing to do with her, but, confound it! Not content to play fast and loose behind the cuckolded Neville’s back, it sounded very much as though Cunningham would be seeing them both at the theatre tomorrow, and—given half a chance—he would snatch his opportunity for a quick cuddle right under her husband’s—his friend’s—nose. Oh, it was too much!

‘You’ve nothing to worry about. I promise you, Neville has no idea what you’re up to,’ Barden soothed. ‘Now stop worrying. I’ll see you tomorrow. Everything will be fine.’

She’d bet it would, Emmie fumed. Quite plainly Roberta Short was getting the wind up that her poor husband might find out what was going on. And Barden Cunningham, who was no doubt no stranger to this sort of situation, was almost casual as he attempted to soothe Roberta’s anxieties.

‘Now what did I do?’

The tone was sharp. Emmie looked up—he had ended his phone call, though she would have known that from his tone of voice, which was oh, so very different from how it had been now that he was no longer speaking to his lady-love.

Emmie strove hard to keep a lid on her anger. ‘Do?’ she countered.

‘I’ve just about had it with you and your arrogance!’ Barden Cunningham snarled curtly. Arrogance? Her? Emmie could feel herself fighting a losing battle with her anger, even if she was desperate to keep her job. She sensed from his statement, ‘I’ve just about had it with you’, that she was on her way out, anyway. ‘So tell me what I did this time.’ He gave her a direct look from those no-nonsense cool grey eyes, and Emmie just knew that he was going to pursue this until he had an answer.

‘It’s none of my business.’ She felt forced, if she hoped to hang on to this job, to give him some sort of a reply.

‘What isn’t?’

As she’d thought. He wanted more than that. ‘When Mrs Short rang earlier she was very anxious that her husband didn’t know about it.’

‘So!’

Oh, abomination, he was immovable. ‘Add that to the conversation—well, your side anyway, which I’ve just overheard—and it’s obvious!’

‘What is?’

She wanted to hit him. He wanted her to come right out with it. Well, she’d be damned if she would. ‘If you don’t know, it’s not up to me to tell you!’ She could feel her temper getting away from her. Cool it, cool it, you can’t afford a temper.

‘You think—’ He broke off, and, putting her remark about Mrs Short being anxious about her husband knowing, together with the exchange he’d just had with her, he suddenly had it all added up. ‘How d—?’ He was angry; she could tell. That made two of them. ‘Why, you prissy little Miss Prim and Proper. You think I’m having an affair with—’

‘It’s nothing to do with me!’ Emmie flared. Her on-the-loose temper had no chance while that ‘prissy little Miss Prim and Proper’ still floated in the air.

‘You’re damned right it isn’t!’ he barked. He was on his feet—so was she. ‘What I do with my life, how I conduct my life, is absolutely, categorically, nothing whatsoever to do with you!’ he snarled. ’Got that?’

Who did he think he was? Who did he think he was talking to? Some mealy-mouthed, wouldn’t-say-boo typist? ‘It was you who insisted on knowing!’ she erupted, her brown eyes sparking flashes of fire.

She refused to back down, even though she knew he was going to well and truly attempt to sort her out now. Strangely, though, as she waited for him to rain coals of wrath down about her head, all at once, as he looked into her storming brown eyes, it seemed he checked himself—and decided to sort her out using another tack. For suddenly his tone became more mocking than angry.

‘Are you being fair, do you think, little Emily?’ he enquired charmingly.

She blinked. ‘Fair?’ She owned she wasn’t quite with him.

‘I don’t—scold—you over your affairs,’ he drawled, and she looked at him, momentarily made speechless. ‘But then,’ he went on coolly, ‘you’ve never had an affair, have you?’

She hadn’t. But pride, some kind of inverted honour, was at stake here. ‘I’ve…’ she began, ready to lie and tell him she’d had dozens of affairs—only she faltered. Given that it seemed it was she who had instigated this conversation, was she really discussing her love-life—or his view that she didn’t have a love life—with her employer? ‘How many affairs I’ve had, or not had, is entirely nothing to do with you,’ she jumped back up on her high horse, and told him loftily.

‘Typical!’ he rapped, soon back to snarling, she noted. ‘You think you can pass judgement on my out-of-work activities, but the moment I enquire into yours, it’s none of my business!’

‘Out-of-work activities’. That was a new name for it! But she’d had enough, and grabbed up her notepad. ‘Do you want this work back today or don’t you?’ she challenged hotly—and too late saw the glint in his eyes that clearly said he didn’t take very kindly to attitude.

Oddly again, though—when some part of her already wanted to apologise, while another part wouldn’t let her—instead of laying into her, as she’d fully expected, Barden Cunningham took a moment out to look down at her. She knew from her burning skin that she must have flares of pink in her cheeks. She was, however, already regretting her spurt of temper, and on the way to vowing never to get angry again, when still looking down at her, that glint of anger in those no-nonsense grey eyes suddenly became a mocking glint as he derided, ‘And there was I, putting you down as a mouse.’

That did it! Mouse! Apologise? She’d see him hang first! Mouse! What self-respecting twenty-two-year-old would put up with that? ‘Better a mouse than a rat!’ she hissed—and was on her way.

She went storming through the connecting door, not bothering to close it—she wasn’t stopping—and straight to her coat peg on the far wall. Even as she reached for her coat, though, and started shrugging into it, she was regretting having lost her temper. What the dickens was the matter with her? She couldn’t afford a temper!

Emmie dipped in the bottom drawer of her desk to retrieve her bag, knowing full well that even if she didn’t want to go there was no way now, after calling Barden Cunningham a rat, that he was going to let her stay.

Or so she’d thought. She had just straightened, her shoulder bag in hand, when his voice enquired coolly, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

She looked over to the doorway and saw he had come to lean nonchalantly against the doorframe. She hesitated, common practical sense intruding on what pride decreed. Oh, she did so like the work, and didn’t want to leave. Her breath caught. Was he saying that, despite her poking her nose into his private life and making judgements on his morals, he wasn’t telling her to go?

‘Aren’t I—dismissed?’ she managed to query.

For answer Barden Cunningham stood away from the door. ‘I’ll let you know when,’ he drawled—and added, with insincere charm, ‘You’ll be working late tonight.’

With that he went into his office, and, obviously utterly confident that she would do exactly as he said, and not bothering to wait to see if she took her coat off, closed the connecting door.

Emmie slowly put down her bag, relief rushing in because she still had this well-paid and, it had to be said, enjoyable job—while another part of her, the proud part, she rather suspected, made her wish she was in a position to walk and keep on walking.

A cold war ensued for the remainder of the day.

Working late was of no concern to Emmie, and she arrived at her flat around eight that evening, starting to feel quite astonished that, though her security was so vital to her, she had today, because she had been unable to control a suddenly erratic temper, put both her security and Aunt Hannah’s future tranquillity at risk!

Emmie got up the following morning, still wondering what in creation had got into her. She was aware that she had been tremendously shaken when her stepfather Alec had died. Her emotions had received a terrible blow. Her redundancy from Usher Trading around about the same time hadn’t helped. The worrying time she’d had of it when each of her successive jobs had folded had been a strain too. Had she perhaps grown too used to heading for the door when something went wrong, and had it become a habit with her?

But, not without cause, she mused as she drove to the offices of Progress Engineering. She remembered Clive Norris’s attempt to kiss her. The way he’d hemmed her in between the filing cabinet and the wall—was she supposed to put up with that sort of nonsense? No, certainly not!

So what had Cunningham done that had made her so angry? So angry that for emotional seconds at a time she had been ready to forget her oh, so important security and walk out of there. Made him so angry she had thought herself about to be dismissed at any second—thought she had really blown it when she’d more or less called him a rat.

So he was, too. But was it any of her business? She hadn’t liked it when he’d said he thought of her as a mouse. Nor had she liked it when he’d referred to her non-existent love-life. But, and Emmie had to face it, she was employed by Barden Cunningham to work, and only work. She had been the one to bring the personal element into it. True, the whole sorry business could have been avoided if he hadn’t enquired so sharply—in such a direct contrast to his tone when talking to his lady-love, Roberta Short—’ Now what did I do?’

Or could it have been avoided? He’d caught her on the raw with his tone, and negated any chance of her making use of the skills of diplomacy she’d assured him at her interview she possessed, without those sharp words telling her he’d just about had it with her and her arrogance. And, if that hadn’t been enough, he’d insisted on knowing why she was being ‘arrogant’ this time.

Emmie went to her desk, aware by then that she was at fault. Anything that happened in the office that wasn’t business was nothing to do with her. Unless the womanising hound made a pass at her—and she could be part of the furniture for all the notice he took of her; not that she wanted him taking notice of her, thank you very much—perish the thought. But she had no call to be remotely interested in anything else that went on which was unconnected with business.

‘Everything all right?’ she asked Dawn after their initial greeting.

‘As it should be.’ Dawn smiled.

‘How are you feeling today?’

‘Touch wood, so far, and in comparison to Tuesday, quite good.’

Emmie got on with some work, but the row she’d had with Barden Cunningham the previous afternoon came back again and again to haunt her. Somehow, when at around eleven he called her into his office, she knew that she was not going to forget it, or indeed feel any better about it, until she’d apologised.

But he was cool, aloof, as he stated, ‘I have to go to Stratford—be ready at twelve.’

She felt niggled; no please, no thank you, no Could you be ready at twelve; I’d like you to accompany me? The cold war was still on, then? He was charm personified with everyone else.

‘Will you require any file in particular?’ she enquired politely, knowing by then that they had a product and design offshoot in Stratford-upon-Avon, about a hundred and ten miles away.

‘Just a fresh notebook,’ he replied. ‘You’re taking the minutes of what could be a lengthy, involved and very important meeting.’

Emmie returned to her desk, glad she was wearing the same smart charcoal suit she had worn for her interview. She knew she was looking good, and felt it was quite a feather in her cap that she had been appointed to go with the head of the group to take notes for this very important meeting. Although, on thinking about it, she had known from the first that Dawn wasn’t able to go. Barden could easily have found someone else, though. Emmie cheered herself up. Make no mistake, please or offend, he would have found someone else if he thought for a moment that she wasn’t up to it.

They made it to Stratford-upon-Avon in good time, and were greeted by the general manager, Jack Bryant, a pleasant man in his early thirties who, while totally businesslike with her employer, frequently rested his eyes on Emmie.

‘I refuse to believe you’re called Emily,’ he commented, while Barden was having a word with the products manager.

‘Would you believe Emmie?’

He smiled, and when Emmie was starting to wonder if she was going to last the whole afternoon, lunchless, he informed her, ‘A meal’s been laid on for you in the executive dining room.’ He was just adding, ‘I hope you won’t mind if I have lunch with you too, Emmie,’ when she became aware that Barden Cunningham had turned back to them.

He tossed her a sour look, which she took as an indication that he felt she hadn’t wasted any time in giving the general manager leave to call her by the name all but he used. Then he looked from her to remark, a touch sarcastically, she felt, ‘Good of you to wait lunch.’

They did not linger over the meal, and, having been given all of five minutes to wash her hands afterwards, they adjourned to the boardroom and the afternoon flew as fast as her fingers. Emmie had known she was good at her job, but at that meeting her skills were tested to the full. When it came to an end she felt as if she had done a full week’s work in one afternoon.

Jack Bryant came over to her while Barden was shaking hands with a couple of the board members. ‘I’m in London quite often, or could be.’ Jack smiled. ‘You wouldn’t care to let me have your phone number, I suppose?’

‘Your divorce through yet, Jack?’ Barden appeared from nowhere to ask conversationally.

‘Any time now,’ he replied.

Barden smiled. ‘Talk to my PA when it’s absolute—she doesn’t encourage married men.’

Why did she want to hit him? On the one hand she was thrilled to bits that he’d actually called her his PA, but on the other she wanted to land him one. For all it was true, and she didn’t encourage married men, he somehow made it sound as if she really was the ‘prissy little Miss Prim and Proper’ he had called her yesterday. That still stung!

It was around seven-thirty when they arrived back at the Progress Engineering building, and by then the mixed feelings about her employer Emmie had been experiencing had calmed down, to the extent that she was again thinking of the apology she owed him.

Intending to lock her notes away in her desk overnight, Emmie went up to her office in the lift with Barden, and he took a short cut through her office to his own. Placing her bag and pad down on her desk, she heard him at his desk, and, acting on the impulse of the moment—and in a now-or-never attempt to get her apology over and done with—she went and paused in the doorway.

Barden Cunningham looked over to where she stood—and her words wouldn’t come. He waited, his glance taking in her straight and shiny black hair, flicking over her suit, which concealed her slender figure. Unspeaking, his glance came back to her face, to her eyes, down to her mouth, where the words trembled, and then back up to her eyes.

Emmie knew then that if she didn’t push those words out soon she was going to lose all dignity and feel a fool. ‘I—I want to apologise for my—er—behaviour yesterday,’ she forced out jerkily—and wished she hadn’t bothered when, instantly aware of what she was referring to, but not looking at all friendly, he looked coolly back at her.

‘You’re still of the same view today as yesterday?’ he enquired crisply.

The view that he was a rat for playing away with Neville Short’s wife while pretending to be his good friend? Yes, she did still hold the same view. Why couldn’t Cunningham just accept her apology and forget it? But—he was waiting, and Emmie just then discovered that, even though a lie, a simple no would have ended the matter, suddenly, lying was beyond her.

‘Yes,’ she said quietly, weathering the direct look from those no-nonsense steady grey eyes. ‘My views haven’t changed.’

The no-nonsense look went from cool to icy. ‘Then your apology is worthless,’ he stated curtly.

Emmie abruptly turned her back on him and marched stormily into her own office. She didn’t know about losing dignity, but she did feel a fool—and humiliated into the bargain. Heartily did she wish she had never bothered, had ignored the plague of her conscience. Her apology was rejected. Huh! The way he talked, he would only accept her apology if it was sincere. He was so sincere! Stabbing his friend Neville in the back—it looked like it!

Fuming, Emmie tossed her notepad in her drawer and locked it away—only to feel like storming in and punching Barden Cunningham’s head when his voice floated coolly from his office. ‘Leave typing back your notes until the morning, Emily.’

Was he serious? He actually thought she had it in mind to type up those minutes tonight? There was a full day’s work there! Resisting the temptation to go to his doorway and poke her tongue out at him, Emmie instead picked up her bag and went swiftly to her outer office door.

Afraid that if she opened her mouth something not very polite would come out, she decided against wishing him goodnight, but, by switching out the light and plunging her office in darkness, she let that be her farewell to him. The swine. He had an assignation with Roberta Short at the theatre that night. He must already be late—she hoped that he wouldn’t be let in.

Emmie had difficulty in getting to sleep that night. It seemed to her that she only had to close her eyes to start wondering if Cunningham had managed to snatch some private time with his married lover. Perhaps even now, at this very moment, they were alone together. The thought made her feel quite wretched. She moved and thumped her pillow—wishing that it was his head.

She surfaced on Friday, after a very fractured night, and showered and donned a white silk shirt and her second-best suit of dark navy wool. Satisfied with her appearance, and aware that, since her notes from yesterday needed to be typed up she was in for a hard day, she was about to don her three-quarter-length car coat when her phone rang.

Aunt Hannah? She didn’t normally ring in the morning on a weekday. Though since she did sometimes get her days mixed up, which was perfectly understandable, Emmie defended, perhaps Aunt Hannah thought today was Saturday.

Emmie went over to the phone, checking her watch and mentally noting she had five minutes to spare if it was Aunt Hannah.

The call was from Keswick House, she soon discovered. However, it was not her step-grandmother—but Lisa Browne. Mrs Whitford was not to be found, and enquiries had revealed that one of the other residents had seen her letting herself out an hour ago. She hadn’t told anyone where she was going.

An hour ago! Aunt Hannah didn’t usually get up this early! Emmie took a quick glance to the window, trying not to panic. It was a grey day; snow was threatening. ‘Was she wearing a coat?’ she asked quickly.

‘Apparently, yes.’

‘She’s probably gone back to our old apartment.’ Emmie spoke her thoughts out loud, panic mixing with concern that Aunt Hannah might be getting confused again. ‘I’ll go there straight away,’ she told Lisa Browne—and wasted no more time.

Only when the cold air hit her did it vaguely dawn on her that she had rushed out without actually putting her own coat on. But she had more important matters to worry about than that—she’d soon get warm in the car. She must get the car heated up for Aunt Hannah. Must collect her. Must return her to Keswick House. Must get to work. Oh, heck, all that work she had to do today! Barden Cunningham was just going to love her. She tried not to think about him. This was the last day of her fifth week at Progress—and the first time she’d been late.

Hoping that her five-week record for being on time, not to mention that she had uncomplainingly worked late when required, would see her employer—womanising toad—forgiving her this one lapse—she couldn’t bear to think that there might be another—Emmie concentrated on her most immediate problem. Her present accommodation was just five miles away from Keswick House; the apartment where they’d used to live was seven miles distant from Aunt Hannah’s new home. For someone so confused that she had in the past believed that she still lived in their old apartment, it was a source of surprise to Emmie that, even in the depths of confusion, Aunt Hannah remembered their previous address and how to get there.

Thinking she would soon have her step-relative safe in her car, Emmie was delayed by twenty minutes in traffic. When eventually she did make it to the area where she had lived happily with Alec and his mother, Emmie looked about for signs of the dear love.

With not a glimpse of her, she parked outside her old address and rang the doorbells of their former neighbours. No one answered. For the next hour Emmie scoured the streets, looking for Aunt Hannah. Starting to feel quite desperate, she went back to her present flat, hoping that Aunt Hannah had thought to go there.

She hadn’t. Emmie rang Lisa Browne, crossing her fingers that her step-relative had made it back to Keswick House. ‘I’m afraid not,’ Lisa Browne answered.

By then Emmie was getting seriously worried. She thought of ringing the police, then decided she would give it one more try. Aunt Hannah had grown aggressive the last time she’d been in police ‘custody’.

Emmie did also consider ringing Dawn at Progress Engineering, but, as distracted as Emmie felt, she remembered just in time how Barden Cunningham had specifically asked her at her interview if she had any commitments. She had an idea she was going to be in enough trouble when she did eventually reach her office without now confessing that she had lied at her interview.

Emmie was back on the road to her old home once more when it came to her that because of her lie about no commitments she would be unable to tell the truth. She suddenly realised she had no excuse to offer for her absence!

All that, however, went from her mind when, just as she reached their former apartment, she saw Aunt Hannah getting out of a delivery van. The van drove off. Emmie made it to the pavement just as Mrs Whitford was about to climb the steps to the front door.

‘Aunt Hannah!’ she called, loud enough for her to hear, but not enough to startle the old lady.

Aunt Hannah turned and, seeing Emmie, smiled. ‘Hello, dear. Not at work today? I waited ages for a bus, but that driver stopped and—’ She broke off, something of much greater importance occurring to her. ‘Do you know, he used to have a Norton 16H too?’

Emmie smiled; her relief at having found Hannah was enormous! The dear love was motorbike crazy, and, in her unconventional younger years, had owned several machines. ‘How are you?’ Emmie enquired, as a precursor to getting her in the car and driving her back to Keswick House.

‘Oh, very well. Mr Norton,’ she went on, making Emmie smile—the van driver and ex-motorbike owner was obviously Mr Norton!—‘was telling me about the National Motorcycle Museum in Birmingham. It’s open seven days a week,’ she hinted.

How could you not love her? Emmie smiled fondly. ‘We’ll go,’ she promised. ‘Not today,’ she added quickly, ‘but soon. It must be getting near to your lunchtime. Shall we go back to Keswick House?’

It was closer to twelve than eleven by the time Emmie had got Aunt Hannah cheerfully settled back at Keswick House, and nearer one than twelve when she made it to her office. She noted that Dawn wasn’t around when she went in, and stowed her bag, glad that the door between her office and the next one was closed.

It did not stay closed for long. Trust him to have heard her. Barden Cunningham pulled back the door and took a pace into the room, his glance becoming more and more hostile the longer he looked at her. She swallowed. Oh, crumbs, it looked like fire and brimstone time!

It was. He took a long breath, as if needing control, ‘Since you obviously haven’t been rushed to hospital to have your appendix removed,’ he began, silkily enough—it didn’t last. ‘Would you mind telling me,’ he went on toughly, ‘just where the hell you’ve been?’

‘I—er—had a domestic problem.’ Emmie found her voice, hoping he would think her central heating system had malfunctioned.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve broken the habit of a lifetime and let some man into your bed!’ he snarled, his idea of domesticity clearly on a very different plane from hers.

The cheek of it! ‘According to you, I don’t have an overnight life!’ Emmie flared, not at all enamoured by his snarling sarcastic tone, but striving hard not to let it get to her.

‘What was this “domestic” matter?’ he went on, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘Couldn’t you get him to leave?’

Emmie lost it. ‘Don’t judge me by your own criteria!’ she flew. Oh, grief, he looked ready to throttle her. All too obviously he hadn’t cared for that. She wanted to back down, wanted to regret her words—but she found she couldn’t. Oh, what was the matter with her? She had pushed her luck yesterday, and the day before—she couldn’t hope to be so lucky again, and she needed this job! ‘Er—has Dawn gone for an early lunch?’ She attempted to cool both her temper and his. Fat chance!

‘I’ve given her the day off!’ he gritted. ‘When she, despite how off-colour she’s feeling, managed to get to a phone—’ sarcastic swine! ‘—I decided we’d cope without her.’

Bully for you! Emmie, hoping, since she was still there, that she hadn’t received her marching orders, offered, ‘I’ll make up my time off. I’ll work late tonight and—’

‘You’re damned right you will,’ Barden cut in bluntly. ‘I want those minutes finished and in my hands before this day is over!’

Emmie stared at him. He had to be joking! Pride—she guessed that was what it was—wouldn’t allow her to tell him she couldn’t do it. She was supposed to be cooking a meal for Adrian Payne that night. ‘Do I take it that you’ll be staying late too?’ she enquired, as evenly as she could.

He smiled then, an insincere smile. And she, who had never hated anyone in her life, well and truly hated Barden Cunningham then. She hated him particularly when, his tone again silky, he replied, ‘No way. I was here before seven this morning. I’m just about to leave for a weekend party.’

Fuming, while trying to hold her temper down, Emmie stared belligerently at him. ‘You’re saying that you want me to cancel my date tonight, to work until I’m ready to drop, in order to lock those minutes away in a drawer for your attention on Monday?’

He didn’t smile, but his tone stayed pleasant as he admonished, ‘You weren’t listening, Emily. I said I want those completed minutes in my hands today.’

‘But—but you’re going—er—partying!’

‘True,’ he answered, and, reaching for a sheet of office stationery, swiftly wrote down an address and some directions. ‘I don’t doubt the party will still be thrashing gone midnight. I’m sure you won’t mind dropping off the minutes on your way home.’

Emmie took the paper from him and stared at it. Then, her eyes widening, she stared at him. The address—Neville and Roberta Short’s address—lay in an entirely different direction from where she lived. And she was positive the vile Cunningham knew it! She flicked her glance past him to the window, where the first flakes of snow had started to fall. A glance back at her employer showed he’d followed her eyes.

He looked back to her—and smiled. Then she hated him afresh! He knew full well that she would be slaving away until at least eight o’clock that night. And after that it would take her an hour to drive to his lady-love’s home!




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