The Parisian Playboy

‘It is that bad, yes?’

Her head jerked up from the papers in her hand to see Jacques Querruel standing watching her. One dark eyebrow was quirked mockingly and there was a disturbing gleam in the amber eyes. He had taken off his leather biking jacket, she noticed dazedly, and the plain charcoal T-shirt he was wearing sat on broad, muscled shoulders. He must work out every day to have a physique like that.

She felt her heart thudding against her ribcage and it annoyed her, along with his air of relaxed authority. He’d be fully aware of the effect he had on women, she thought hotly, expecting every female from Margaret’s age down to fall at his feet in worship. For a moment she just sat there, dry-mouthed and silent, but then his arrogance sent the adrenalin flowing fiercely. He might be the sacred head of Querruel International, and drop-dead gorgeous to boot, but he had absolutely no effect on her at all, she told herself vehemently. Added to which she had the distinct feeling she wouldn’t be working here much longer anyway.

She straightened, aware of the hectic colour staining her cheeks but unable to do anything about it. ‘Judge for yourself,’ she said curtly, knowing it wasn’t at all the way to speak to the ultimate kingpin but unable to help herself.

The smile had been wiped off his handsome face, Holly noted with some satisfaction as he walked over to her and took the papers she was holding out. And she didn’t know why but she made very sure their fingers didn’t touch.

She had hoped he would take the report back to his office and read it there, but instead he idly brushed some papers out of the way and perched on the side of her desk. Her little cubby-hole had never been big by any standards, as she’d already made abundantly plain to him, but now it seemed to shrink away to nothing. He was so close she could smell the exclusive, subtle odour of his aftershave, and that, together with the leather trousers stretched tight over lean male thighs, was making her face burn in the most peculiar way.

She forced her eyes upwards a little, where they fell on to his hands. They were powerful, with long, strong fingers and short, clean fingernails. An artist’s hands, or maybe a musician’s… And then she caught the thoughts angrily. He was neither of those things, for goodness’ sake, she told herself irritably. She knew from office gossip that he was a ruthless, hard and inexorable businessman, who gave no favours and asked for none. He liked fast cars and motorbikes, and even faster women—so she had heard—and was a millionaire many times over. Not exactly the type of man to sit painting watercolours!

The chiselled profile was frowning when she looked at his face, and he raked back his hair—as black as a raven’s wing—a couple of times as he read. Even sitting quite still as he was now vitality radiated from him; she had never come across such a disturbing man before. It was probably quite unreasonable, because to date she had to admit he had been pretty fair in the circumstances, but she didn’t think she liked Jacques Querruel one little bit.

He was on the last page of the statement; he’d obviously got to the bit she’d written about the incident that morning, and to her surprise she heard him swear softly under his breath. She didn’t speak French but there was no doubting the content of the muttered expletives. He turned his head, his amber eyes meeting her blue, and his tone was almost an accusation when he said, ‘Why the hell did you not do something about this before? You are not the type who cannot say boo to the goose.’

The fact that his perfect English had let him down just a fraction gave Holly a disproportionate amount of satisfaction as she said coldly, ‘I was hoping to deal with it myself with the minimum of unpleasantness.’

‘Then you have not succeeded.’

‘That’s hardly my fault, is it?’ she snapped back angrily. Hateful man! He’d be blaming her for everything in a moment. ‘I wanted to keep my job; that’s not a crime.’

‘Indeed it is not, Miss Stanton,’ he agreed smoothly. ‘I understand you have only been with Querruel International a few weeks?’

‘Eight,’ she clarified militantly. ‘And if you say Mr Roberts has been with the company for a lot longer without anyone complaining before that’s not because there haven’t been grounds, I assure you.’

‘I see.’ He stared at her consideringly and she made herself stare back without flinching. ‘I was not going to say that, Miss Stanton.’ He lifted the hand holding her statement. ‘I may keep this?’ he enquired softly.

She nodded. ‘Yes, it’s finished.’ Just as she was finished at Querruel International. It might take a week or a month or six months, but sooner or later Jeff’s father would find an excuse to get rid of her, however this thing turned out. And she wouldn’t want to continue working so close to him as his secretary’s assistant now anyway. The job had gone sour.

Jacques Querruel stood up, and once more she found herself pinned by his gaze. ‘For what it is worth, I despise the type of man who threatens a woman in this way,’ he said quietly. ‘I can assure you I will investigate this matter very thoroughly, Miss Stanton, and rest assured Jeff’s position in this company will not affect the outcome.’

Oh, come on, who was he kidding? He flitted here, there and everywhere, but Jeff’s father ran this place for Jacques Querruel, and people were hardly going to slate his son knowing once the big boss left they would have no protection against any comeback from daring to speak the truth.

Holly wasn’t aware her face was speaking volumes, not until the big, dark man in front of her said softly, ‘You do not believe this?’

‘No,’ she said, because there was no point in lying. ‘At least, I believe you’ll do your best to get to the truth, but you won’t. You see, everyone likes Mr Roberts Senior as much as they dislike his son, and they know how much he and his wife think of him. Also…’ She paused, wondering if she should go on.

‘Yes, Miss Stanton?’

‘You are not here most of the time,’ she said baldly.

‘Ah, this I see.’ The beautiful eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘Then my enquiries will have to be in confidence and no names mentioned to Jeff’s father, apart from yours, of course.’

Oh, great, wonderful. The sacrificial lamb. Still, it was only what she had expected after all; it just grated doubly that he seemed so unconcerned.

‘That’s all right, then.’ She tried, she really tried to keep the sarcasm to a minimum but she was so angry she could spit.

Like before, he read her mind perfectly. The firm, slightly stern mouth suddenly twisted with the nearest thing to genuine amusement she had seen in the last caustic hour or so.

‘You are not in awe of me, Miss Stanton,’ he said softly.

It was a statement, not a question, which was just as well because Holly was beyond speaking at that moment. He had leant forward as he’d spoken, both hands resting on the desk and his body close enough for the warmth and smell of him to surround her. She felt her senses quivering and was furious with herself for being so weak and trembly.

‘And that is unusual,’ he continued thoughtfully, almost as though he was speaking to himself now. ‘I am surrounded by a whole host of sycophantic beings, Miss Stanton. It comes, as they say, with the territory. The people who really speak their mind to me I can count on one hand and I would not use all my fingers.’

She didn’t know what to say and so she said nothing.

‘This was a…novelty at first. Perhaps even satisfying, I am ashamed to admit, in the early days.’

He didn’t look ashamed, Holly thought, and she had no doubt he loved every moment of the power he was able to command so effortlessly, especially where the fairer sex was concerned. She had seen men like him before, men who considered themselves nothing less than demi-gods with the ability to direct and control other people’s lives. Admittedly none of the others had looked as good as Jacques Querruel, but that would have to have made him more puffed up in anything.

She became aware he was waiting for her to speak. She pulled herself together and said evenly, ‘So it isn’t satisfying now, Mr Querruel?’

He looked at her for a moment without speaking and she wondered if she had gone too far, even though her tone hadn’t been openly acidic. And then he grinned. ‘Occasionally,’ he admitted softly. ‘Yes, occasionally it serves a purpose.’

Oh, wow! Oh, wow, oh, wow, oh, wow. Where had all the natural arrogance gone? If the other girls thought he was dynamite normally he had just moved up to nuclear-missile potential.

Holly cleared her throat, thinking that if she had known this morning she was going to have such an amazing, one-in-a-million day she would have worn her new suit and given more attention to her hair and make-up. And then she suddenly realised where her thoughts were going and checked herself firmly. It wouldn’t make any difference if she was covered from head to foot in Dior and diamonds. Jacques Querruel was as far removed from her orbit as the man in the moon! Not only that, he was a heartless so-and-so.

‘Margaret tells me your work is more than acceptable,’ Jacques continued after a moment. ‘In fact, “excellent” is the word she used.’

Good old Margaret!

‘How old are you, Miss Stanton?’ he asked with a directness that took her by surprise.

‘Twenty-five.’ She frowned. ‘Why?’

He liked that in this young woman, the candidness, but she was something of a paradox and he did not like that. He did not trust what he did not understand, and one of his strengths was that he could sum people up very swiftly. She appeared to be strong and determined, one could almost say aggressively so, and yet several times now he had seen something else behind those great blue eyes. She intrigued him, and it had been a long time since that had happened.

‘Why?’ He repeated the word and then didn’t answer her question, saying instead, ‘Have you ever considered working abroad, Miss Stanton, or are you bound to home shores by family or maybe a boyfriend?’

Holly blinked. What had that got to do with anything? She stared at him, wondering how they had arrived at this from his initial reading of her statement. He was watching her coolly and she envied his detachment as her nerve-ends began to prickle. Her wary expression seemed to amuse him. His amber eyes glinted and a faint cynical smile twisted his lips. ‘Well?’ he prompted lazily.

‘I…I wouldn’t be averse to travelling in the future,’ she said carefully, hating the little stutter at the beginning of her words and warning herself to show no weakness before this man.

‘And family commitment? Love commitments?’

His French accent gave the last two words a sexy intonation an English voice couldn’t hope to compete with. Holly hoped the heat which had surged in her blood wasn’t reflected in her face, but she had the nasty feeling she was a definite shade of pink. ‘I live alone in rented accommodation, Mr Querruel,’ she answered primly, ‘and I have some good friends but not a special man-friend if that’s what you mean.’

He surveyed her for a second more as he straightened and then he said quietly, ‘Mr Roberts has already left the premises so you can relax. I have some business to deal with but I would like to see you again before you leave tonight, Miss Stanton. You will not forget this?’

She wanted to ask why. He had her statement, and there was nothing she was prepared to add or delete from it. But, in view of the way he had successfully deflected any unwanted questions to date, she didn’t bother, inclining her head as she said, ‘Of course not, Mr Querruel. In Mr Roberts’s office?’

‘Just so.’

And with that he was gone.

CHAPTER TWO

THE rest of the day was an anticlimax. Holly went to lunch as usual with Margaret, in the excellent canteen the firm boasted, but the other woman didn’t mention the events of the morning at all and fielded any attempt Holly made to discuss them. Holly was left with the distinct impression Margaret had been warned not to talk about the matter by a higher source: perhaps by Jeff’s father, who was now ensconced in his office with Jacques Querruel, or the tycoon himself.

The afternoon was spent typing a long and involved but boring report with one ear cocked towards the outer office. Although Holly was aware of Jeff’s father leaving at some point after she and Margaret had returned from lunch, Mr Roberts Senior did not look in on her, for which she was grateful. Another confrontation was beyond her for the present.

There was the usual coming and going in Margaret’s office, and once or twice Holly heard a female speaking in a hushed but excited tone—no doubt due to the occupant of the room beyond, Holly thought cynically—but she worked on undisturbed. Once the report was finished she printed three copies, as Margaret had requested, and clipped each of them together before placing them in three prepared folders.

And then she stretched tiredly, shutting her eyes for a moment as she raised her hands high above her head with a big sigh. She had tried not to think about the impending meeting with Jacques Querruel but now it was imminent. She didn’t want to see him again. Not ever.

‘Tired?’

Her eyes shot open and there he was, standing in the open doorway, but now dressed in a light grey suit that must have cost a mint of money. The jacket was unbuttoned, revealing an ivory shirt tucked into the flat waistband of his immaculate trousers. He was the epitome of the successful tycoon, from the top of his sleek, dark head to the tips of his handmade shoes. He looked even more sexy than he had done in the leathers.

Holly was horrified the last thought had slipped in and straightened hastily in her seat, flushing hotly.

‘It is nearly five-thirty.’ He didn’t wait for her to speak. ‘And I think our little chat could be conducted more comfortably over dinner, yes? Are you free tonight, Miss Stanton?’

‘What?’ She was hallucinating now, she had to be, because he couldn’t possibly have said what she thought he’d just said.

‘Dinner?’ he said with a patience which bordered on the insulting. ‘I take it you do eat dinner? I asked you if you were able to accompany me tonight.’

Holly’s flush deepened. Either he was stark staring mad or she was.

‘There is a job proposition I would like to put to you,’ he continued smoothly, ‘which will obviously need some discussion. I am hungry and I am thirsty, and a good bottle of cabernet sauvignon is calling. If you are free tonight I will run you home and you can change. I have a table booked for seven.’

She stared at him, utterly taken aback. And then the thought surfaced—who would he be taking to dinner if she refused? The table was already booked and Jacques Querruel didn’t look the type to eat alone. No doubt he had a little black book to deal with such an eventuality. She forced herself to say, and calmly, ‘I don’t understand, Mr Querruel. You said a job proposition?’

‘Don’t tell me that you were not thinking of looking for another position forthwith?’ he said quietly.

Holly’s jaw set. This was a catch-22 question and however she answered it she couldn’t win. If she denied it he would assume she was lying. That much was clear. If she confirmed his suspicions she might well find herself leaving Querruel International sooner than she had expected. Jacques Querruel was the type of employer who demanded absolute loyalty.

‘What gave you that idea?’ Holly chose her words carefully.

‘Nicely fielded, Miss Stanton,’ he said gravely.

Impossible man! She glared at him and he smiled back, a cynical twist of his cleanly sculpted mouth. ‘So…I will give you another ten minutes to finish off here and then we will call by your apartment, yes?’ he asked, his black eyebrows rising with derisive amusement at her confusion.

Holly thought of all the reasons that made it imperative she say no to this ridiculous invitation. The man was dangerous—lethal, in fact, as an adversary. She’d heard stories about his ruthlessness that would make the straightest hair curl. And she had made a formal complaint against the son of Jacques Querruel’s managing director here in England. At the very least her accusations were going to cost the company time and effort, and she just might have stirred up something of a hornets’ nest. This man was wealthy and powerful, cold and arrogant. He was also devastatingly attractive and used to having any woman he wanted with a click of his well-manicured fingers. She hated to admit it to herself but he scared her half to death.

And—and here she inwardly berated herself for the shallowness of her thoughts—she had nothing suitable to wear for dinner with a multimillionaire, and her little bedsit was not exactly the type of home Jacques Querruel would be used to.

So, in view of all that, why could she hear herself saying ‘Thank you, Mr Querruel. I would be pleased to hear what you have to say over dinner?’

‘Excellent.’ His gaze ran over her for one more second and then he turned without another word and she was alone again.

For as long as it took for the door to Michael Roberts’s office to close, anyway. Then Margaret was standing where Jacques had just stood, her eyebrows disappearing into her hair. ‘I don’t believe what I just heard,’ she whispered, coming right into the room and standing by Holly’s desk. ‘I’ve worked for Mr Roberts for five years and I’ve seen females galore throw themselves at Mr Querruel, and he’s never even noticed. He’s a man who keeps work and play totally separate.’

‘This is work.’ Holly was embarrassed and hot. ‘He said something about a job proposition. I think he suspected that I couldn’t stay on after what happened this morning.’

‘Did you feel that?’ Margaret asked unhappily.

Holly nodded. ‘I guess so,’ she admitted. ‘It would be too awkward with me working for you and you being Mr Roberts’s secretary. You see that, don’t you, Margaret?’

Margaret stared at the lovely young face in front of her, and now her motherly instincts came to the fore as she said softly, ‘Holly, be careful, won’t you? Jacques Querruel is renowned as a love-’em-and-leave-’em type, and normally his partners are selected from women who think like him, if you know what I mean. They’re all beautiful and sophisticated and often holding high-powered jobs—real career women. They don’t want the ties of hearth and home any more than he does.’

Now it was Holly’s turn to stare at the other woman. ‘Margaret, he’s only asked me out to discuss some sort of work proposal,’ she said in astonishment. ‘I think he believed me about Jeff Roberts, although he never said so, and he’s probably feeling he owes me some sort of alternative job, that’s all.’ She could hardly believe Margaret was suggesting anything else. Jacques Querruel and a typist? It was laughable.

Margaret sniffed a very worldly-wise and maternal sniff. ‘Be that as it may,’ she said grimly. ‘You just remember what I’ve said, that’s all.’

‘He asked me in your hearing,’ Holly pointed out reasonably. ‘He wouldn’t do that if he wasn’t serious about a job, would he?’

Margaret just looked at her, her plump chin settled in her ample neck and her eyebrows raised in a way she didn’t mean to be comical but which struck Holly so.

‘I promise I’ll be careful,’ Holly said at last, biting back a smile. ‘OK? And I’ll tell you everything that transpires in the morning, although I’m sure you’re worrying unnecessarily. But thanks anyway,’ she added, reaching out a hand and patting the other woman’s arm.

She received a warm smile in return. ‘I know you think I’m a fussy old woman but, in spite of the fact we’ve only known each other a little while, I think of you as a friend,’ Margaret said earnestly. ‘And with you not having any family as such, I feel you’re a bit…’

‘Vulnerable?’ Holly proffered.

Margaret nodded unhappily.

‘Believe me, Margaret, vulnerable I’m not,’ Holly said firmly. ‘I learnt to look after myself from when I could toddle; I had to—no one else was going to. And, if nothing else, being pushed around by the establishment and having six foster homes before I was eighteen makes one resilient.’

‘You’re telling me you’re tough?’

The tone was so disbelieving Holly laughed out loud. ‘I’m not a push-over,’ she qualified. ‘And I haven’t met a man yet who could soft-soap me into doing something I didn’t want to do.’

‘Ah, but you hadn’t met Jacques Querruel before.’ Margaret gave a wise-owl nod of her head just as the telephone in her office began to ring, causing her to bustle back into the other room.

Dear Margaret. Holly sat for a moment, nipping at her lower lip with small white teeth. It was true, they had hit it off right away at the interview for the job, which Margaret herself had conducted, and she had enjoyed working with the other woman the last weeks. She’d thought she was really set up here; with Margaret backing her there had been no reason why she couldn’t have worked herself up to a prime position in a few years with a nice fat salary to boot. She wasn’t afraid of hard work—in fact, she thrived on it—and with no home commitments she could work as late as she liked when necessity commanded.

Margaret’s warning continued to whirl round in Holly’s head as she tidied her desk and turned off the word processor. She locked the filing cabinets—her last job of the day—with the spare set of keys Margaret had given her in her first week at Querruel International, before walking through into the other room.

This office was spacious, as befitted the managing director’s secretary, holding two easy chairs and a small coffee-table along with Margaret’s huge L-shaped desk. In one corner a bookcase held a selection of Querruel International brochures and magazines where their furniture had been advertised, and in another stood two filing cabinets holding material of a confidential nature. It was as different from Holly’s little cubby-hole as chalk from cheese.

Margaret was still talking on the telephone as Holly emerged, and in the same moment Jacques Querruel strode through the open doorway of the other office. ‘Ready?’ he asked abruptly, and as Holly nodded he took her arm, calling goodnight to Margaret as he whisked Holly out into the corridor, whereupon the lift doors opened immediately he touched the button.

They had never done that for her, Holly thought bemusedly. She normally had to wait for at least a minute or two before the lift graciously consented to answer her call.

Once inside the lift Holly found herself tongue-tied. She searched her mind feverishly for some light comment to relieve the tension but it was a blank. She blessed the years of harsh training when she had learnt to disguise her feelings and appear calm and collected, however she was feeling inside, as she glanced at her reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift.

It showed an averagely tall, slim young woman with cool blue eyes and a composed face; an image she had carefully cultivated and took pleasure in. It was her wall of safety, her security, and part of her distress this morning had been because first Jeff Roberts, and then Jacques Querruel—in quite a different way from the former—had broken through the deliberately constructed barrier.

‘The taxi is waiting for us.’ She had been aware of his overt inspection as the lift swiftly took them downwards, but it wasn’t until the doors opened in Reception that he spoke. She turned her head and looked at him then as he added, ‘Your apartment is in Battersea, yes?’

‘Yes.’ How did he know that? Had he asked Margaret where she lived or had he checked out her personal file? The latter; she’d bet her boots on it.

‘And our restaurant, Lemaires, is in Chelsea, so that is most convenient, is it not?’

She didn’t know about that. The thought of Jacques Querruel sitting in the tiny bedsit which was her ‘apartment’ was an absolute no-go—there wasn’t room to swing a cat—and the thought of him waiting outside with a taxi clocking up every minute she took to get ready wasn’t an option either. As they stepped out of the smart, air-conditioned building into a pleasantly warm May evening Holly took a deep hidden breath and said steadily, ‘If you would like to go on ahead to the restaurant after you’ve dropped me off that would be fine, Mr Querruel. I’ll join you as soon as I can.’