The Boss's Secret Mistress

“I don’t know why, Mr. Ryecart. It’s not as if I could fire you.”

Lucas made an exasperated sound. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it! Can’t you forget our respective positions for a single moment?”

“No, since you ask, I can’t forget. Neither would you, I imagine, if you were in my position.”

“Underneath me?” he suggested.

“Yes!” She’d walked right into it.

“If only you were.” His eyes made a leisurely trip down her body and back again. The elevator arrived and Lucas stepped in with her. Tory wanted to step out again, but it seemed an act of cowardice. What could he do in the five seconds it took for the elevator to reach the ground floor?

He could hit the emergency button. Tory didn’t realize that was what he’d done until the elevator lurched to a halt.

“You can’t do that!”

He grinned. “For now, let’s talk.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

He drawled, “Fair enough. Let’s not talk.” And with one step he closed the distance between them….

The Boss’s Secret Mistress

Alison Fraser

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘LUCAS RYECART?’ Tory repeated the name, but it meant nothing to her.

‘You must have heard of him,’ Simon Dixon insisted. ‘American entrepreneur, bought up Howard Productions and Chelton TV last year.’

‘I think I’d remember a name like that,’ Tory told her fellow production assistant. ‘Anyway, I’m not interested in the wheeling and dealing of money men. If Eastwich needs an injection of cash, does it matter where it comes from?’

‘If it means one of us ending up at the local job centre,’ Simon warned dramatically, ‘then, yes, I’d say it matters.’

‘That’s only rumour.’ Tory knew from personal experience that rumours bore little relationship to the truth.

‘Don’t be so sure. Do you know what they called him at Howard Productions?’ It was a rhetoric question as Simon took lugubrious pleasure in announcing, ‘The Grim Reaper.’

This time Tory laughed in disbelief. After a year in Documentary Affairs at Eastwich Productions, she knew Simon well enough. If there wasn’t drama already in a situation, he would do his best to inject it. He was such a stirrer people called him The Chef.

‘Simon, are you aware of your nickname?’ she couldn’t resist asking now.

‘Of course.’ He smiled as he countered, ‘Are you?’

Tory shrugged. She wasn’t, but supposed she had one.

‘The Ice Maiden.’ It was scarcely original. ‘Because of your cool personality, do you think?’

‘Undoubtedly,’ agreed Tory, well aware of the real reason.

‘Still, it’s unlikely that you’ll fall victim to staff cuts,’ Simon continued to muse. ‘I mean, what man can resist Shirley Temple hair, eyes like Bambi and more than a passing resemblance to what’s-her-name in Pretty Woman?’

Tory pulled a face at Simon’s tongue-in-cheek assessment of her looks. ‘Anyone who prefers blonde supermodel types…Not to mention those of an entirely different persuasion.’

‘I should be so lucky,’ he acknowledged in camp fashion, before disclaiming, ‘No, this one’s definitely straight. In fact, he has been described as God’s gift to women.’

‘Really.’ Tory remained unimpressed. ‘I thought that was some rock singer.’

‘I’m sure God is capable of bestowing more than one gift to womankind,’ Simon declared, ‘if only to make up for the many disadvantages he’s given you.’

Tory laughed, unaffected by Simon’s anti-women remarks. Simon was anti most things.

‘Anyway, I think we can safely assume, with a little judicious eyelash-batting, you’ll achieve job security,’ he ran on glibly, ‘so that leaves myself or our beloved leader, Alexander the Not-so-Great. Who would you put your money on, Tory dearest?’

‘I have no idea.’ Tory began to grow impatient with Simon and his speculations. ‘But if you’re that worried, perhaps you should apply yourself to some work on the remote chance this Ryecart character comes to survey his latest acquisition.’

This was said in the hope that Simon would allow her to get on with her own work. Oblivious, Simon remained seated on the edge of her desk, dangling an elegantly shod foot over one side.

‘Not so remote,’ he warned. ‘The grapevine has him due at eleven hundred hours to inspect the troops.’

‘Oh.’ Tory began to wonder how reliable the rest of his information was. Would Eastwich Productions be subject to some downsizing?

‘Bound to be Alex,’ Simon resumed smugly. ‘He’s been over the hill and far away for some months now.’

Tory was really annoyed this time. ‘That’s not true. He’s just had a few problems to sort out.’

‘A few!’ Simon scoffed at this understatement. ‘His wife runs off to Scotland. His house is repossessed. And his breath smells like an advert for Polo mints… We do know what that means, Goldilocks?’

At times Tory found Simon amusing. This wasn’t one of them. She was quite aware Alex, their boss, had a drink problem. She just didn’t believe in kicking people when they were down.

‘You’re not going to do the dirty on Alex, are you, Simon?’

‘Moi? Would I do something like that?’

‘Yes.’ She was certain of it.

‘You’ve cut me to the quick.’ He clasped his heart in theatrical fashion. ‘Why should I do down Alex…especially when he can do it so much better himself, don’t you think?’

True enough, Tory supposed. Alex was sliding downhill so fast he could have won a place on an Olympic bobsleigh team.

‘Anyway, I’ll toddle off back to my desk—’ Simon suited actions to his words ‘—and sharpen wits and pencil before our American friend arrives.’

Tory frowned. ‘Has Alex come in yet?’

‘Is the Pope a Muslim?’ he answered flippantly, then shook his head as Tory picked up the phone. ‘I shouldn’t bother if I were you.’

But Tory felt some loyalty to Alex. He had given her her job at Eastwich.

She rang his mistress’s flat, then every other number she could possibly think of, in the vain hope of finding Alex before Eastwich’s new boss descended on them.

‘Too late, ma petite,’ Simon announced with satisfaction as Colin Mathieson, the senior production executive, appeared at the glass door of their office. He gave a brief courtesy knock before entering. A stranger who had to be the American followed him.

He wasn’t at all what Tory had expected. She’d been prepared for a sharp-suited, forty something year old with a sun-bed tan and a roving eye.

That was why she stared. Well, that was what she told herself later. At the time she just stared.

Tall. Very tall. Six feet two or three. Almost casual in khaki trousers and an open-necked shirt. Dark hair, straight and slicked back, and a long angular face. Blue eyes, a quite startling hue. A mouth slanted with either humour or cynicism. In short, the best-looking man Tory had ever seen in her life.

Tory had never felt it before, an instant overwhelming attraction. She wasn’t ready for it. She was transfixed. She was reduced to gaping stupidity.

The newcomer met her gaze and smiled as if he knew. No doubt it happened all the time. No doubt, being God’s gift, he was used to it.

Colin Mathieson introduced her, ‘Tory Lloyd, Production Assistant,’ and she recovered sufficiently to raise a hand to the one stretched out to her. ‘Lucas Ryecart, the new chief executive of Eastwich.’

Her hand disappeared in the warm dry clasp of his. He towered above her. She fought a feeling of insignificance. She couldn’t think of a sane, sensible thing to say.

‘Tory’s worked for us for about a year,’ Colin continued. ‘Shows great promise. Had quite an input to the documentary on single mothers you mentioned seeing.’

Lucas Ryecart nodded and, finally dropping Tory’s hand, commented succinctly, ‘Well-made programme, Miss Lloyd…or is it Mrs?’

‘Miss,’ Colin supplied at her silence.

The American smiled in acknowledgement. ‘Though perhaps a shade too controversial in intention.’

It took Tory a moment to realise he was still talking about the documentary and another to understand the criticism, before she at last emerged from brainless-guppy mode to point out, ‘It’s a controversial subject.’

Lucas Ryecart looked surprised by the retaliation but not unduly put out. ‘True, and the slant was certainly a departure from the usual socialist dogma. Scarcely sympathetic.’

‘We had no bias.’ Tory remained on the defensive.

‘Of course not,’ he appeared to placate her, then added, ‘You just gave the mothers free speech and let them condemn themselves.’

‘We let them preview it,’ she claimed. ‘None of them complained.’

‘Too busy enjoying their five minutes’ fame, I expect,’ he drawled back.

His tone was more dry than accusing, and he smiled again.

Tory didn’t smile back. She was struggling with a mixture of temper and guilt, because, of course, he was right.

The single mothers in question had been all too ready to talk and it hadn’t taken much editing to make them sound at best ignorant, at worst uncaring. Away from the camera and the lights, they had merely seemed lonely and vulnerable.

Tory had realised the interviews had been neither fair nor particularly representative and had suggested Alex tone them down. But Alex had been in no mood to listen. His wife had just left him, taking their two young children, and single mothers hadn’t been flavour of the month.

Lucas Ryecart caught her brooding expression and ran on, ‘Never mind…Tory, is it?’

Tory nodded silently, wishing he’d stuck to Miss Lloyd. Or did he feel he had to be on first-name terms with someone before he put the boot in?

‘Tory,’ he repeated, ‘in documentary television it’s always difficult to judge where to draw the line. Interview the mass murderer and are you explaining or glorifying his crimes? Interview the victims’ families and do you redress the balance or simply make television out of people’s grief?’

‘I would refuse to do either,’ Tory stated unequivocally at this mini-lecture.

‘Really?’ He raised a dark, straight brow and looked at her as if he were now assessing her as trouble.

It was Simon who came to her rescue, though not intentionally. ‘I wouldn’t. I’d do anything for a good story.’

Having been virtually ignored, Simon thought it time to draw attention to himself.

Ryecart’s eyes switched from Tory to Simon and Colin Mathieson performed the introductions. ‘This is Simon Dixon. Alex’s number two.’

‘Simon.’ The American nodded.

‘Mr Ryecart.’ Simon smiled confidently. ‘Or do you wish us to call you Lucas? Being American, you must find English formality so outmoded.’

Tory had to give credit where credit was due: Simon had nerve.

Lucas Ryecart, however, scarcely blinked as he replied smoothly, ‘Mr Ryecart will do for now.’

Simon was left a little red-faced, muttering, ‘Well, you’re the boss.’

‘Quite,’ Ryecart agreed succinctly, but didn’t labour the point as he offered a conciliatory smile and hand to Simon.

Simon—the creep—accepted both.

It was Colin Mathieson who directed at them, ‘Do you know where we might find Alex? He isn’t in his office.’

‘He never is,’ muttered Simon in an undertone designed to be just audible.

Tory shot him a silencing look before saying, ‘I think he’s checking out locations for a programme.’

‘Which programme?’ Colin enquired. ‘The one on ward closures? I thought we’d abandoned it.’

‘Um…no.’ Tory decided to keep the lies general. ‘It’s something at the conception stage, about…’ She paused for inspiration and flushed as she felt the American’s eyes on her once more.

‘Alcoholism and the effects on work performance,’ Simon volunteered for her.

She could have been grateful. She wasn’t. She understood it for what it was—a snide reference to Alex’s drinking.

Colin didn’t seem to pick up on it, but Tory wasn’t so sure about Lucas Ryecart. His glance switched to the mocking smile on Simon’s face, then back to hers. He read the suppressed anger that made her mouth a tight line, but refrained from comment.

‘Well, get Alex to give me a bell when he gets in.’ Colin turned towards the door, ready to continue the guided tour.

Ryecart lingered, his eyes resting on Tory. ‘Have we met before?’

Tory frowned. Where could they have met? They were unlikely to move in the same social circles.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ she replied at length.

He seemed unconvinced but then shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. We probably haven’t. I’m sure I would have remembered you.’

He smiled a hundred-watt smile, just for her, and the word handsome didn’t cover it.

Tory’s heart did an odd sort of somersault thing.

‘I—I…’ Normally so articulate, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

It was at least better than saying anything foolish.

He smiled again, a flash of white in his tanned face, then he was gone.

Tory took a deep, steadying breath and sat back down on her chair. Men like that should carry around a Government Health Warning.

“‘I’m sure I would have remembered you.’” Simon mimicked the American’s words. ‘My God, where does he get his lines? B movies from the thirties? Still, good news for you, ducks.’

‘What?’ Tory looked blank.

‘Come on, darling—’ Simon thought she was being purposely obtuse ‘—you and the big chief. Has he got the hots for you or what?’

‘You’re being ridiculous!’ she snapped in reply.

‘Am I?’ Simon gave her a mocking smile. ‘Talk about long, lingering looks. And not just from our transatlantic cousin. Me think the Ice Maiden melteth.’

Tory clenched her teeth at this attempt at humour and confined herself to a glare. It seemed wiser than protesting, especially when she could recall staring overlong at the American.

Of course it hadn’t lasted, the impact of his looks. The moment he had talked—or patronised might be closer to the mark—she had recovered rapidly.

‘Well, who’s to blame you?’ Simon ran on. ‘He has at least one irresistible quality: he’s rich. As in hugely, obscenely, embarrassingly—’

‘Shut up, Simon,’ she cut in, exasperated. ‘Even if I was interested in his money, which I’m not, he definitely isn’t my type.’

‘If you say so.’ He was clearly unconvinced. ‘Probably as well. Rumour has it that he’s still carrying a torch for his wife.’

‘Wife?’ she echoed. ‘He’s married?’

‘Was,’ he corrected. ‘Wife died in a car accident a few years ago. Collided with a tanker lorry. Seemingly, she was pregnant at the time.’

The details struck a chord with Tory, and her stomach hit the floor. She shook her head in denial. No, it couldn’t be.

Or could it?

Lucas could shorten to Luc. He was American. He did work in the media, albeit a quite different area.

‘Was he ever a foreign correspondent?’

She willed Simon to ridicule the idea.

Instead he looked at her in surprise. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, my sources tell me he worked for Reuters in the Middle East for several years before marrying into money. I can’t remember the name of the family but they’ve Fleet Street connections.’

The Wainwrights. Tory knew it, though she could scarcely believe it. He’d been married to Jessica Wainwright. Tory knew this because she’d almost married into the same family.

How had she not recognised him immediately? She’d seen a photograph. It had pride of place on the grand piano—Jessica radiant in white marrying her handsome war reporter. Of course, it had been taken more than a decade earlier.

‘Do you know him from some place, then?’ Simon didn’t hide his curiosity.

Tory shook her head. Telling Simon would be like telling the world.

‘I remember reading about him in a magazine.’ She hoped to kill the subject dead.

‘Where are you going?’ he asked, watching her pick up her handbag and jacket.

‘Lunch,’ she snapped back.

‘It’s not noon yet,’ he pointed out, suddenly the model employee.

‘It’s either that or stay and murder you,’ Tory retorted darkly.

‘In that case,’ Simon did his best to look contrite, ‘bon appetit!’

It deflated some of Tory’s anger, but she still departed, needing fresh air and her own company. She made for the back staircase, expecting to meet no one on it. Most people used the lift.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she cannoned right into a motionless figure on the landing, bounced back off and, with a quick, ‘Sorry,’ would have kept on moving if a hand hadn’t detained her. She looked up to find Lucas Ryecart staring down at her. Two meetings in half an hour was too much!

The American, however, didn’t seem to think so. His face creased into a smile, transforming hard lines into undeniable charm. ‘We meet again…Tory, isn’t it?’

‘I—I…yes.’ Tory was reduced to monosyllables once more.

‘Is everything all right?’ He noted her agitation. He could hardly miss it. She must resemble a nervous rabbit caught in headlights.

She gathered her wits together, fast. ‘Yes. Fine. I’m just going to the…dentist,’ she lied unnecessarily. She could have easily said she was going to do some research.

‘Well, at least it’s not me,’ he drawled in response.

Tory blinked. ‘What’s not?’

‘Giving you that mildly terrified look,’ he explained and slanted her a slow, amused smile.

Tory’s brain went to mush again. ‘I…no.’

‘Check-up, filling or extraction?’

‘Extraction.’

Tory decided an extraction might account for her flaky behaviour.

‘I’ll be back later,’ she added, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl.

‘Don’t bother,’ Lucas Ryecart dismissed. ‘I’m sure Colin won’t mind if you take the rest of the day off.’

He said this as Colin Mathieson appeared on the stairwell, holding up a file. ‘Sorry I was so long, but it took some finding.’

‘Good…Colin, Tory has to go to the dentist.’ The American made a show of consulting him. ‘Do you think we could manage without her this afternoon?’

Colin recognised the question for what it was—a token gesture. Lucas Ryecart called the shots now.

‘Certainly, if she’s under the weather,’ Colin conceded, but he wasn’t happy about it.

There were deadlines to be met and Alex was seldom around these days to meet them. Colin was well aware Tory and Simon were taking up the slack.

‘I’ll come in tomorrow,’ she assured him quietly.

He gave her a grateful smile.

‘Tory is a real workaholic,’ he claimed, catching the frown settling between Lucas Ryecart’s dark brows.

‘Well, better than the other variety, I guess.’ The American’s eyes rested on Tory. He had a very direct, intense way of looking at a person.

Tory felt herself blush again. Could he possibly know why they were covering for Alex?

‘I have to go.’ She didn’t wait for permission but took to her heels, flying down the stairs to exit Eastwich’s impressive glass façade.

Having no dental appointment, she went straight back to her flat to hide out. It was on the ground floor of a large Victorian house on the outskirts of Norwich. She’d decided to rent rather than buy, as any career move would dictate a physical move. Maybe it would be sooner rather than later now Lucas Ryecart had descended on Eastwich.

Tory took out an album of old photographs and found one from five years ago. She felt relief, sure she’d changed almost out of recognition, her face thinner, her hair shorter, and her make-up considerably more sophisticated. She was no longer that dreamy-eyed girl who’d thought herself in love with Charlie Wainwright.

Coupled with a different name—Charlie had always preferred Victoria or Vicki to the Tory friends had called her—it was not surprising Lucas Ryecart had failed to make the connection. Chances were that all he’d seen of her was a snapshot, leaving the vaguest of memories, and all he’d heard was about a girl called Vicki who was at college with Charlie. Nobody special. A nice ordinary girl.

She could imagine Charlie’s elegant mother using those exact words. Then, afterwards, Vicki had probably undergone a personality change from ordinary to common, and from nice to not very nice at all. What else, when the girl had broken her son’s heart?

It was what Charlie had claimed at the time. Forget the fact that it had been his decision to end the engagement.

She took out another photograph, this one of Charlie’s handsome, boyish face. She didn’t know why she kept it. If she’d ever loved him, she certainly didn’t now. It had all gone. Not even pain left.

Life had moved on. Charlie had the family he’d wanted and she had her career. She still had the occasional relationship but strictly on her terms with her in control.

She pulled a slight face. Well, normally. But where had been that control when she’d met Lucas Ryecart that morning? Lagging way behind the rest of her, that was where.

It had been like a scent, bypassing the brain and going straight for the senses. For a few moments it had been almost overpowering, as if she were drowning and had forgotten how to swim.

It hadn’t lasted, of course. She’d surfaced pretty damn quickly when he’d begun to talk. She still bristled at his criticism on the single mothers documentary, regardless of whether it might be fair, and regardless of the fact that he’d bought Eastwich and along with it the right to express such opinions. She just had to recall what he’d said in that deep American drawl and she should be safe enough.

The question floated into her head. ‘Safe from what?’

Tory, however, resolutely ignored it. Some things were better left well alone.

CHAPTER TWO

BY MORNING Tory had rationalised away any threat presented by Lucas Ryecart.

It could have been a simple chat-up line when he’d asked if they’d met before. Even if he’d seen a photograph of her, it would have left only the vaguest of impressions. And why should he make the connection between a girl student named Vicki and the Tory Lloyd who worked for him? She hadn’t between Luc and Lucas until Simon had talked about his past and no one in Eastwich really knew about hers.

No, chances were he’d already forgotten her. He’d be like all the other chief executives before him—remote and faceless to someone in her junior position.

Reassured, Tory did as promised and went in to work, dressed casually in white T-shirt and cotton chinos. As it was Saturday, there were no calls to answer and, within an hour, she had dealt with most outstanding correspondence on her desk. The rest she took down the corridor for her boss’s personal attention.

She didn’t expect to find Alex Simpson there, not on a Saturday, and was initially pleased when she did. She imagined he’d come in to catch up on his own work.

That was before she noticed his appearance. There was several days’ growth of beard on his chin and his eyes were bleary with sleep. His clothes were equally dishevelled and a quilt was draped along what he called his ‘thinking’ sofa, transforming it into a bed.

At thirty Alex Simpson had been hailed as a dynamic young programme-maker, destined for the highest awards. He had gone on to win several. Now he was pushing forty and, somewhere along the way, he had lost it.