Mistress Against Her Will

As the Jaguar drew away, she lifted her hand but, a slight frown on his good-looking face, Paul was staring straight ahead.

Opening her bag, she took out the pair of cheap low-strength reading glasses she’d bought in the local chemist and put them on.

Then bracing herself, she walked the short distance to the Clairmont Building, with its handsome Georgian façade, and through the imposing main entrance.

The clock above the reception desk showed it was ten minutes to eight, so she was in good time.

As, her heart beating fast and her legs feeling oddly shaky, she started to cross the marble-floored lobby, she caught sight of herself reflected in one of the long gilt-framed mirrors.

Wearing a smart charcoal-grey suit and an off-white blouse, her small heart-shaped face outwardly calm, her dark hair in a smooth coil, she looked every inch the cool, efficient businesswoman.

No one would have guessed at her inner turmoil as she approached the desk and gave her name to the pretty blonde receptionist.

‘You’ll find the office complex on the second floor, Miss North. If you would like to go straight up, Mrs Bancroft, Mr Lorenson’s secretary, will be waiting for you.’

When Gail stepped out of the lift on the second floor she was greeted by an attractive middle-aged woman with bobbed iron-grey hair.

‘I’m Claire Bancroft. If you’d like to follow me, Miss North…’

As Mrs Bancroft led the way along the carpeted corridor to another lift, she remarked, ‘Mr Lorenson is in his apartment this morning. He likes to keep the interviews he conducts informal.’

Entering a four digit code into a small panel, she added, ‘This is his private lift.’

The lift took them up to the top floor, where they emerged into a quietly luxurious hallway. Opening the nearest door, Mrs Bancroft said, ‘Please come in, Miss North…’

Gail found herself ushered into a large sunny room with an off-white and mint-green decor and an ornate plaster ceiling. To the left, a door into a neighbouring room stood slightly ajar.

Between two sets of windows was a desk with an impressive array of the latest electronic equipment and a black leather chair.

Apart from the businesslike desk, the room was furnished as a lounge.

‘Perhaps you’d like to take a seat?’ Mrs Bancroft suggested with a friendly smile. ‘Mr Lorenson knows you’re here. He’ll be with you in a minute or so.’

When the other woman had gone, too nervous to sit and cravenly grateful for even this short breathing space, Gail looked around curiously.

Along with some lovely antique furniture, there were a couple of comfortable-looking couches, several soft off-white leather armchairs and a large round coffee table.

A thick-pile smoke-grey carpet covered the floor and on either side of a beautiful Adam fireplace, which was filled with fresh flowers, there were recessed bookcases, their shelves overflowing.

Considering how very strongly she had felt about Zane Lorenson, aside from his appearance, she had known hardly anything about the man himself, what he was really like, what his tastes were.

This appeared to be the room of a man with eclectic tastes, a man who preferred his surroundings to be both simple and elegant.

On the walls several stark and dramatic snow scenes by Jonathan Cass rubbed shoulders with the vibrant colour and slumberous warmth of Tuscan landscapes by Marco Abruzzi.

Frowning a little, she studied them. With such diverse techniques and subject matter, they shouldn’t have been hung together. But somehow the contrast worked, highlighting them both.

It seemed that Zane Lorenson was a man who knew precisely what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to try the less obvious.

Her mother had always said that one could get a good idea of a person’s character from what kind of books they read so, taking a deep breath, Gail moved closer to the bookcases and looked at their contents.

Classics and poetry, travel and adventure, mysteries, biographies, autobiographies, the best popular paperback fiction and Booker Prize winners jostled for space.

She had picked up a copy of a recent Booker Prize winner when, glancing up, she met a pair of brilliant dark eyes.

He was leaning negligently against the door jamb, his tough, good-looking face shrewd, calculating, an arrogant tilt to his dark head.

Wearing a smart light-weight suit, a crisp shirt and tie and handmade shoes, he looked every inch the billionaire businessman. He also looked fit and virile and dangerous.

Though she had braced herself to see him again, the shock hit her like a blow over the heart and in that instant her heartbeat and her breathing, the very blood flowing through her veins, seemed to stop.

She had remembered how he looked—of course she had, his face had haunted her for years—and, apart from an added maturity, he looked much the same now as he had then.

But in the intervening years she had almost forgotten just what a powerful impact his physical presence had on her.

While she stood rooted to the spot, endeavouring to pull herself together, he continued to stand and study her in unnerving silence.

It seemed an age, but could only have been seconds, before she released the breath she was holding and her heart began to beat again in slow, heavy thuds.

How long had he been standing there quietly watching her while she’d nosed amongst his personal belongings?

She felt herself shrivel inwardly. Her one consolation was that the cool green gaze fixed on her face held no sign of recognition. But she had known it wouldn’t.

As soon as she had managed to regain some semblance of composure, she thrust the book she was holding back on to the shelf and said unevenly, ‘I’m sorry; I was just…’

‘Taking a look at what I read? What conclusion did you come to?’

His voice was low-pitched and attractive. It was a voice she had never forgotten. A voice she would have known amongst a million. A voice that could have called her back from the grave.

Shaken afresh, she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘That you have interesting tastes.’

‘Really? Do you?’ he drawled nonchalantly.

‘Yes, I believe so.’

‘What about the pictures?’ He nodded towards the impressive artwork.

So he had watched her studying those as well. ‘I like them.’

His gaze narrowed. ‘Do you know who painted them?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know?’

She raised her chin, trying to give an air of authority and calm. ‘Though these are clearly originals, and I can only afford prints, Jonathan Cass and Marco Abruzzi are two of my favourite artists.’

He raised a dark, level brow. ‘My, my, we do seem to have a lot in common. Wouldn’t you say so?’

Clenching her teeth at the blatant mockery, she said nothing.

‘So I take it you have the same pictures hanging in your living room?’

Aware that he thought she was making the whole thing up to curry favour, she answered briefly, ‘No.’

‘Ah, now you disappoint me. Do you actually have any by either of those artists?’

‘I have two of Cass’s and—’

‘Which two?’

‘Snowfall and Winter Journey.’

‘Any of Abruzzi’s?’

‘Three,’ she replied quickly.

‘And they are?’

‘Olive Groves, Sunset and Fields of Sunflowers,’ she said, listing her three favorites.

‘Do they all hang in the same room?’

‘No…I would never have had the nerve to hang them together.’

‘What do you think of the result?’

She wanted to say she hated it but, unable to frame the lie, she admitted, ‘It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does.’

‘I’m pleased you think so,’ he told her sardonically. ‘Well, now we’ve established that when it comes to books and paintings we’re practically soulmates, suppose you sit down and we’ll see how you measure up on the business side.’

But she had had enough. If Zane Lorenson had realized who she was, he couldn’t have been more unkind and derisive.

‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly, ‘but I’ve decided I don’t want the position after all, so there’s no point in staying for the interview.’

Appearing totally unruffled, he asked, ‘Why have you changed your mind?’

She had nothing to lose by speaking the truth. Lifting her chin and bravely meeting those green eyes, she told him, ‘I don’t like the way you’re making fun of me. It’s not businesslike and—’

‘You can’t bear to be teased?’

‘I can’t see the necessity for it.’

‘As a matter of fact, how a person reacts to being teased tells me quite a lot about his or her character. Now sit down.’

Though he spoke quietly, his voice cracked like a whip and, against all her inclinations, she found herself obeying a will stronger than her own.

CHAPTER TWO

AS GAIL sank into the nearest armchair, her heart hammering against her ribs so loudly she felt sure it must be audible, he commented, ‘That’s better.’

Then, with exaggerated politeness, ‘How do you like your coffee, Miss North?’

Her empty stomach was churning and, about to say she didn’t want any coffee, she thought better of it and answered, ‘A little cream, no sugar, thank you.’

‘Exactly how I like mine,’ he observed. Adding provokingly, ‘Now, isn’t that strange?’

Refusing to rise to the bait, she put her bag on the floor and sat in silence while he filled two cups with the dark fragrant liquid and added a dash of cream to each of them.

Passing her a cup, he sat down opposite and looked at her with a gleam in his eye that showed he enjoyed being master of the situation.

Watching her bite her lip, he queried, ‘Do I take it you’re vexed because of a little gentle teasing?’

Without answering, she looked at him stonily.

‘OK.’ He sat back with a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Let’s keep this strictly business—where are you from?’

Still riled, she answered quickly. ‘I was born in the northeast—’

The moment the words were out, she could have bitten her tongue. She shouldn’t have told him that. Rona had always teased her unmercilessly about her Geordie accent and it was the one thing that he might possibly remember.

She risked a quick glance at him and the little flare of satisfaction in those handsome eyes made her heart sink.

Had he guessed her identity?

No, surely not. It must be because he had managed to provoke her into speech.

His expression bland now, he asked, ‘Whereabouts in the north-east?’

‘Tyneside,’ she answered reluctantly, certain he was still mocking her.

When he nodded, clearly absorbing the information, Gail looked up at him and cautiously studied his handsome profile. She had forgotten just how devastatingly attractive his white smile was, and her heart lurched crazily.

Not that she was still attracted to him, she told herself hastily. It was just remembering the past that had affected her so strongly.

While she tried to steady herself, she made a pretence of sipping her coffee.

She was hoping that he had let the subject drop when he asked casually, ‘How long did you live in the north?’

‘We left when I was twelve.’

‘Why?’

She paused, worried about how much information to reveal but replied honestly. ‘My father died when I was ten, and two years later my mother remarried.’

Everything she had told him so far was the exact truth, but if he wanted to delve any further into her family background, rather than admit that her stepfather had been American and they had moved to the States, she would have to resort to lies.

However, to her relief, he changed tack by saying, ‘So fill me in on your personal details—full name, age, where you live, previous work experience…’

‘It’s all in my CV.’

He leaned back and crossed his ankles, perfectly at ease. ‘I dare say it is, Miss North. But I’d prefer to hear it from your own lips…’

It was so in keeping with his attitude that she should have expected it.

‘You can start by telling me your Christian name.’

‘Gail.’

‘Short for Abigail?’

‘Yes.’ She had been praying that he would take the name at face value and not make the connection.

Her parents had always called her Abbey, but after pointing out that in books Abigail was usually a servant’s name, her stepsister Rona had used her full name, apparently in an unkind attempt to belittle her.

It was one of the reasons that, when she and her mother had returned to England, she had started to call herself Gail.

‘A nice old-fashioned name,’ Zane Lorenson commented after a moment. ‘So how do you come to be called Abigail?’

‘It was my maternal grandmother’s name.’

‘Would you believe me if I told you my maternal grandmother was named Abigail?’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ she said shortly.

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well, at least you’re honest. But, in this case, mistaken. It happens to be the truth.’

Her mouth went dry as he added, his tone reflective, ‘It’s quite an unusual name these days. You don’t meet many Abigails.’ His gaze held hers as if suggesting there was more meaning to his words.

So he had known who she was all along, and that was why he’d treated her the way he had.

If it had been at all possible she would have made a run for it, but her old fear of him was back in force and she was frozen into immobility, unable to either move or speak.

Quite a few seconds had passed before she appreciated that his lean, tanned face showed no sign of the anger or hostility she would have expected had he known who she was. She was being ridiculous, and she knew it. She had to keep calm.

His expression held a kind of studied patience as he waited for an answer to a question she hadn’t even heard.

‘I—I’m sorry,’ she stammered.

‘I asked how old you were.’

‘Twenty…’ she paused ‘…six.’ It was her first white lie and the words almost stuck in her throat as she pretended to be older than she was. She had to make sure he hadn’t made the connection.

‘Which school did you go to?’

‘Langton Chase.’ She had gone to the well-known all girls school for just a year after she and her mother had returned to England.

He placed it immediately. ‘So you lived in Sussex?’

‘Yes.’

‘With your parents?’

Though after the separation there had only been her mother, she answered, ‘Yes.’

‘Do your parents still live there?’

She shook her head. ‘They’re both dead now.’

‘Were you very close?’

‘I was to my mother.’

‘Any brothers or sisters?’

Family relationships were a minefield, and she answered briefly, ‘No.’

He ran long, lean fingers over his smooth jaw before moving on to ask, ‘How old were you when you left school?’

With a sigh of relief at the change of subject, she told him, ‘Eighteen.’

‘Then what?’

‘I spent a year at St Helen’s Business College before getting a job at Randalls.’

‘And there you were…’ he picked up her CV ‘…PA to David Randall.’

She nodded, then, all at once foreseeing a problem that Paul hadn’t taken into account, she added hastily, ‘After Mr Randall had a heart attack and retired, the company was closed down.’

Zane Lorenson’s clear, long-lashed eyes pinned her. ‘The financial news indicated that it had been bought by The Manton Group.’

Her heart sank but somehow she managed steadily, ‘Yes, it was. They paid off the workers and closed it down as soon as it was legally theirs.’

‘What do you think of Paul Manton?’

‘W-what?’ she stammered.

‘I asked what you thought of Paul Manton. Presumably he did the negotiating and wielded the axe. Or was it someone else?’

‘A Mr Desmond,’ she said, seizing on the suggestion.

Mark Desmond, Paul’s second in command, a bluff, hearty man she had disliked on sight, had come in with Paul a couple of times.

‘I’m surprised. Manton usually enjoys doing his own dirty work… Tell me, what did you think of the decision to close Randalls down?’

‘I thought it was totally wrong.’ For perhaps the first time her tone held real conviction. ‘It wasn’t what Mr Randall had wanted or expected.’

He raised a brow, questioning her frankness. ‘He couldn’t have known what kind of men he was dealing with, otherwise he would have expected it.’

Then, with another swift change of subject, ‘Where do you live?’

‘In Kensington.’

‘Which part of Kensington?’ he pressed.

‘Just off the West Brackensfield Road,’ she answered reluctantly.

She had hoped he would leave it at that, but he asked, ‘Whereabouts exactly?’

‘Delafield House, Rolchester Square. I share a flat,’ she went on, rambling a bit because she was nervous.

‘Does that mean you have a live-in lover?’

She shook her head. ‘No. It means I share with another girl.’

‘Have you any ties or commitments at home?’

She shook her head.

‘No steady boyfriend?’

She stuck as close to the truth as she could. ‘I’m not seeing anyone just at the moment.’

Studying her heart-shaped face, with its small straight nose, beautiful almond eyes and dark winged brows, its flawless skin and pure bone-structure, he commented, ‘That surprises me.’ Then, drily, ‘Or have you heard that I prefer my PA to be a free agent?’

Determined to avoid direct lies wherever possible, she said, ‘I split up with Jason, my previous boyfriend, some six months ago.’

‘And there’s been no one since then?’

Forced into a direct lie, she surreptitiously crossed her fingers and said, ‘No.’

‘So you’re still broken-hearted?’ her tormentor asked, the old hateful mockery back.

‘Are such personal questions really necessary?’ she demanded, losing her cool.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ he assured her, his voice flippant. Then, smiling a little at her indignation, ‘You see I don’t want to take on a lovelorn PA whose mind isn’t on her work.’

‘I am not lovelorn,’ she informed him raggedly.

‘Does that mean you’ve got over it? Or you didn’t love him in the first place?’

The unholy gleam in his eyes telling her that this was just another attempt to bait her, she bit back the angry words, took a deep breath and repeated more calmly, ‘I am not lovelorn.’

With an ironic smile, he saluted that show of anger management before asking, ‘Do you have any objections to travelling?’

On firmer ground now, she replied, ‘None at all.’

‘Done much?’

‘Not as much as I would have liked. Europe mainly…’ After her mother’s untimely death she had taken holidays with Joanne, one of the secretaries from Randalls.

‘Ever been to the States?’

She should have seen that coming. Once again she crossed her fingers and lied. ‘No.’

His cool green eyes studied her face and lingered there, and she had the strangest feeling that he knew perfectly well that she hadn’t spoken the truth.

Unable to meet that probing gaze, she was forced to look away.

There was a long thoughtful pause, then he said, ‘Tell me, do you usually wear glasses?’

Ambushed by the unexpected question, she hesitated fractionally before saying as steadily as possible, ‘Why, yes.’

‘Strange. When I asked Mrs Rogers to describe you, she failed to mention them.’

Leaning over, he lifted the glasses from Gail’s nose and squinted through them, before asking, ‘Why do you wear them?’

‘Why?’

‘Yes, why? As far as I can see, these are merely low-strength reading glasses.’

Feeling her colour rise, she said nothing.

He handed them back to her. ‘So you don’t wear glasses as a rule. You put them on especially for this interview.’

Both were statements rather than questions, but her failure to dispute either was answer enough.

‘Why did you feel that was necessary?’

Cursing the impulse that had made her put them on, she stammered, ‘Well I—I thought they would make me look more…efficient, more competent…’

His green eyes glinted. ‘That reason hardly inspires confidence. It strongly suggests that you aren’t at all sure of yourself or your capabilities.’

‘I’m quite sure I’m capable of doing the job.’

‘Possibly you are, but lying to me is hardly the way to get it.’

So she had failed.

All she could feel for a moment or two was a sense of relief that she wouldn’t have to go through with something she had dreaded.

Hard on the heels of that relief came a leaden feeling of failure as she realized just how angry and disappointed Paul would be.

Then both those feelings were swamped by the urgent necessity to leave, to get away from Zane Lorenson’s clear-eyed scrutiny, his condemnation.

Gathering up her bag, she thrust the glasses clumsily into it and jumped to her feet, babbling, ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time…’

He rose too and took a step towards her. At five feet six inches she was fairly tall for a woman, but at well over six feet he seemed to tower over her. ‘Don’t rush off.’

Ignoring the quietly spoken order, she was about to head for the door when his lean fingers closed lightly round her wrist and kept her where she was. ‘I said don’t rush off.’

He had said that same thing to her once before and she shuddered as, his touch burning into her like a brand, she made an effort to pull free.

It was to no avail and, panic-stricken, recalling that past encounter and desperate to escape, she tried harder. ‘Please let me go.’

Ignoring her plea, he put his free hand on her shoulder and pressed her back into the chair. Then, releasing her wrist, he stood over her.

Her voice sounding high and frightened even to her own ears, she objected, ‘You’ve no right to keep me here against my will.’

Clicking his tongue, he told her severely, ‘Now you’re being melodramatic.’

His words were like a dash of cold water and, realizing the justice of his remark, she took a deep steadying breath and apologized shamefacedly. ‘I’m sorry. I really don’t know what’s got into me.’

‘I dare say the prospect of being interviewed made you nervous,’ he suggested with smooth mockery. Now, if you’re still interested in the job, there are one or two things you ought to know…

‘I expect my PA to be available for twenty-four hours a day if I think it’s necessary. That’s why I asked if you have any ties at home.

‘More importantly, I always give my PA my complete trust and in return I expect discretion and one hundred per cent loyalty…’

His words made Gail feel hollow inside.

‘Because of the occasional long hours, I’m flexible with regard to the length and the number of holidays my PA takes, and the salary is generous…’

He quoted a figure that made Gail blink and she found herself thinking, no wonder his previous PA had been reluctant to leave.

‘Oh, just one more thing. When we’re away from the office I like a friendly, informal working atmosphere with the use of first names.

‘Now, if you want it, the job is yours.’

She didn’t. But the thought of Paul’s anger prevented her from saying so. If there was still a chance, he would want her to grab it with both hands.

And, after the way Zane Lorenson had treated her, did she really care if he came a cropper? Wouldn’t she be justified in cheering if he could be brought to his knees?

Yes, she would.

But the truth was that she didn’t want to play any part in it. Didn’t want to have to work closely with a man who had turned her whole life upside down once before, and who, she was forced to admit, might well have the power to do so again.

She had never met anyone else who had such an overwhelming effect on her. Just being with him was traumatic, turning the cool, competent woman she had become into a mass of nerves and making her feel like a gauche, insecure seventeen-year-old again.