by Penny Jordan
Conditioned to her spectacular colouring, Storm was oblivious to the vivid effect of her russet curls against the creamy warmth of her skin, or the generously full curve of her mouth beneath its covering of lip gloss. Wrinkling her nose, she picked up her bag and fled. She was late enough already without wasting more time staring at her own reflection.
Breakfast was a hurried affair, with her mother scolding her affectionately as she swallowed her coffee and refused anything more substantial. Mrs Templeton was lending Storm her Mini and, as always when time was short, this temperamental dowager refused to start first time.
‘She won’t start if you speak to her like that,’ Mrs Templeton warned Storm who was muttering curses over the Mini’s obstinacy. ‘She’s an old lady and it’s a cold morning.’
Storm grinned. Her mother’s habit of treating her elderly car as an eccentric member of the family was a standing joke.
‘Don’t worry,’ she promised, ‘I’ll pay due consideration to her advancing years and uncertain health!’
Very little traffic used the winding road to Gloucester. The early morning mist had dispersed, leaving only the odd patch here and there in low-lying hollows. The glinting autumn sun sparkled on frost-rimed hedges, and Storm hummed happily as she drove along.
Later she admitted to herself that she had been guilty of letting her mind wander, and perhaps even taking up more than her allotted half share of the road, but that was later. Her first instinctive reaction when she saw the powerful green car leaping towards her devouring the slender distance that separated them was one of furious resentment that its driver should behave with such a lack of regard for any other road users.
With almost unbelievable speed the other car swerved away, narrowly missing her, and as Storm glared revengefully at its occupants, she realised that the man seated in the passenger seat was Neil Philips, the local estate agent. Which meant that in all probability the driver was none other than their new neighbour. Scarcely a good omen for their future relationship Storm admitted as she gave the Mini’s steering wheel a reassuring pat. Really, she was getting quite as bad as her mother! A car was a car was a car! Unless, of course, it happened to be an expensive luxury toy designed for men rich and vain enough to own such objects, she reflected, remembering the sleek lines of the green monster. She tossed her head. Arrogant brute, to sound his horn like that! He had been as much in the wrong as she was!
But she had not been giving her driving the concentration she ought to have done, she admitted. Her mind had been on Jago Marsh and the difference his coming was bound to make to her life. David had not said when they might expect him, but surely it would take some time for him to tie up his business affairs in London; that should give them a little breathing space.
Gloucester was busy. It took her ten minutes to find a parking space and another five to check her hair and make-up before sliding out of the car and hurrying towards the Top Girl agency. That was one thing, she thought, chuckling to herself, at least being small meant that one could get out of a Mini without tying oneself in knots.
She made an attractive picture, her skirt toning perfectly with the fox jacket, her hair a banner of rich colour against the pale subtlety of the fur, her eyes shining with anticipation. Several passers-by stopped to give her a second look, but Storm barely noticed.
The clock was just striking ten when she pushed open the plate-glass door of the modern office block which housed the agency’s offices. Disappointment awaited her. The man she had come to see had been called to an urgent meeting in Banbury, and had had to cancel their appointment.
His secretary was sympathetic, offering Storm a cup of coffee as she explained that she had tried to reach her at Radio Wyechester without success.
Storm fought to quell her disappointment. She had worked hard to secure this appointment and had come prepared with various suggestions for alternative jingles and themes that could be used to promote the agency. She suspected that the head of the agency had only agreed to their appointment because she had pressed him, and had in fact been relieved to find an excuse to cancel. However, she had learned that in advertising confidence was everything, so she composed her features into a relaxed smile, and got out her diary to make a fresh appointment.
A whole morning wasted, she thought miserably an hour later as she parked her car in the supermarket car-park beneath their offices. As usual it was crowded, and because Sam Townley refused to give them permanent car-parking spaces she had to circle it a couple of times before she could find a gap. Feeling unusually hot and bothered, she headed for the studio.
Sue stopped her in the outer office.
‘Message for you.’ She pulled a face. ‘Your friend Mr Beton’s been on. He says his ad was cut short again last night, and that it was indistinct. He wants to know if you’re going to cut his bill to match.’
‘Damn!’ Storm swore feelingly. ‘I’ll give him a ring later on. Anything else?’
Sue shook her head. ‘No other messages, but David wants to see you. He said to go to his office the moment you arrived. Pete and the others are already there.’
‘Okay. I’ll be right there,’ Storm told her. David must have decided to hold a meeting following on from his visit to London. Perhaps he wanted to plan a campaign to show Jago Marsh that they weren’t a total write-off. She certainly hoped so.
When she slipped into David’s office five minutes later, there was an atmosphere of tense expectancy in the air. Pete, who was standing nearest to the door, draped an arm across her shoulder, pulling her against him.
David’s small office was cramped at the best of times, but with three of their four technicians, Pete, David himself and Storm in it, there was barely room to move without breathing in, and in vain Storm craned her neck to see over the taller male heads.
‘What’s up? Frightened you’ll miss something my, lovely?’ Pete teased, mocking her lack of inches.
It wasn’t often that Storm lost her cool with her colleagues, but the irritations of the morning had mounted up and her temper was at boiling point. Now it spilled over, making her snap back angrily,
‘What’s to miss, for heaven’s sake? I could do without another eulogy on the marvels performed by Mr Magnificent Marsh. I know David’s desperately trying to sweeten the pill and all credit to him, but as far as I’m concerned Jago Marsh is still poison!’
There was an uncomfortable silence and Storm realised that her voice had carried farther than she had intended. She was just about to mumble an apology for interrupting the meeting when a voice far cooler and crisper than David’s mild tones drawled sapiently from the other side of the room,
‘Ah, I see our missing Advertising Controller has condescended to join us. Perhaps if you took the trouble to listen occasionally, Miss Templeton, instead of commandeering the conversation you might learn something. Marvels, as you call them, aren’t achieved simply by waving a magic wand. They take time and hard work—something that appears to be conspicuously lacking in this set-up.’
Her cheeks burned.
‘Naughty, naughty!’ Pete whispered in her ear. ‘You’ve pulled the tiger’s tail with a vengeance, my lovely. I do believe he’s about to make an example of you!’
As though by magic a path had cleared to David’s desk, and for the first time Storm had an uninterrupted view of the man lounging there.
She recognised him immediately. There was no mistaking that tall well-muscled body encased in an immaculate charcoal-grey suit, nor the hard-boned masculine profile, icy-grey eyes sweeping her from head to foot.
Jago Marsh! Here already! She could hardly believe it.
He flicked back a crisp white shirt cuff to glance meaningfully at the gold Rollex watch strapped to his wrist, and Storm stifled her resentment. If he was trying to imply that she was late for work, he would soon learn different. He came out from behind his desk, the suggestion of restrained power very evident in his lithe movements, his black hair slightly longer than she had remembered,
brushing the collar of his jacket. He gestured to the chair in front of David’s desk and said in a deceptively calm voice:
‘Sit down, Storm.’
Every instinct warned her that here was a man who was dangerous. She tried to keep calm, forcing herself to meet his eyes. They were dark grey and right at this moment looked uncommonly like the North Sea when an east wind was blowing over it. She was half way towards the chair before she realised what she was doing, and straightened abruptly. ‘I’ll stand, thank you,’ she said clearly. ‘I’m no different from the other members of this team. Just because I’m female I don’t expect to be treated any differently.’
And he could take that whichever way he chose, she decided triumphantly.
For several unnerving seconds she was forced to endure the diamond brilliance of ice-cold scrutiny and then he was smiling derisively.
‘Well, you’re right about one thing,’ he drawled coolly. ‘You’re feminine all right.’
To her chagrin the others, including David, laughed. Her whole body was quivering with indignation, but even so she was completely unprepared for the hard hands descending on her shoulders as she was propelled backwards and forced gently into the chair.
‘There,’ Jago said gently. ‘Now you can both see and hear what’s going on and everyone else can see over you.’
Storm’s cheeks burned anew. He made her sound like a spoiled, fractious child! Beneath her blouse her skin felt as though it were on fire where he had touched her, her emotions in chaos.
‘Now,’ he drawled, ‘I’ll continue, and if it makes it any easier for you, I promise you I’m not here to dwell on past glories—mine or anyone else’s.’ His eyes swept the room. ‘There’s one thing for sure, if we were relying on relating the successes of your venture we’d have precious little to talk about.’
Here it came, Storm thought numbly. How he must be gloating! Barging in among them, wearing clothes more suitable to a boardroom than David’s shabby office. All that she was feeling showed in her eyes, as she lifted them to his unreadable face. He returned the look, his eyes dropping to the soft curves so lightly masked by the lavender silk blouse. Without a trace of embarrassment they lingered for a while before making a full and appreciative study of the rest of her body, and when his eyes eventually returned to her face, they were no longer cold but warmly sensual with a meaning that was distinctly plain.
Storm went hot and then cold, trying to appear unaffected by the blatantly sensual inspection. No one had ever looked at her like that before, and she shivered a little without knowing why.
‘Well, Storm?’ he queried in the silence which followed. ‘You seemed to have plenty to say for yourself earlier on, suppose you tell me why after nearly twelve months’ operation you’re still floundering about like a bunch of amateurs, playing at operating a radio station.’
That disturbing sexually aware look might never have been, his voice and eyes probed mercilessly, driving her to murmur defiantly under her breath,
‘Perhaps it’s because we can’t all aspire to the dizzy heights surmounted by the Jago Marshes of this world.’
She hadn’t intended him to hear, but when his mouth tightened comprehendingly she knew that he had.
She quaked inwardly as he advanced on her with a lithe cat-like tread, but she had come too far to back down now. She was not susceptible enough to be reduced to jelly by a mere look, she reminded herself, her chin lifting proudly as she waited for his acid denunciation.
However, it seemed he had more control of his temper than she had of hers, for he merely looked at her rather thoughtfully before commenting softly,
‘Since you appear so keen on airing you views, Storm, perhaps you’d care to favour us with an explanation of these advertising figures.’
She’d been wrong about his temper, Storm thought, as he thrust a file under her nose. It was there all right; smouldering in the look he gave her, reminding her of what he thought of women in the media. An unpleasant thought struck her. Perhaps he was deliberately trying to goad her into handing in her notice. Well, she wouldn’t fall for that one, she decided grimly as he dropped the file on David’s desk, his eyes never leaving her face.
‘Barely a thousand pounds a week in revenues. In London we turn over fifty thousand in exactly the same time span, and that’s allowing only six minutes of commercials to the hour. It turns the listeners off if they’re swamped by commercial breaks. Those aren’t what they tune in for, but I’m sure all this is merely coals to Newcastle as far as you’re concerned, Storm. What,’ his eyebrows arched in unconcealed contempt, ‘nothing to say for yourself?’
As she fought for self-control she heard David interrupt placatingly, ‘Storm is highly qualified and very experienced, Jago. She was with an excellent advertising agency in Oxford before she joined us…’
‘Really?’ The cool reply came dubiously, the hard eyes probing. ‘She looks very young to be… experienced.’
Damn the man! Storm thought savagely, reacting instinctively to the deliberate taunt.
‘I know you don’t approve of women in the media, Mr Marsh,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘And please don’t bother to deny it, I’ve heard you lecture on the subject. But there’s such a thing as equal opportunities these days, and I intend to prove that I can do this job as well as any man. Now, about these figures.’ Not daring to look at him or to allow herself to dwell on the silence which had fallen on the room, she picked up the advertising file, shuffling the papers to conceal how nervous she felt. Reaction was beginning to set in, but she could not back down now. She had taken her stand and must prove to Jago Marsh once and for all that while she might be a woman as far as her work went she expected to be treated in the same manner as he would treat a male colleague, and not be subjected to the covert sexual warfare he had been indulging in before.
‘Firstly,’ she told him, striving to keep her voice even and calm, ‘Wyechester isn’t London and people—life moves at a much slower pace. It takes time to convince local businessmen to make use of our services and…’
‘I’ll say it does!’ Jago cut in contemptuously, without letting her finish. ‘But how much time do you need? Time is something you’re running out of here,’ he reminded them curtly. ‘That’s why I’m here, to try and put things right before the I.B.A. are left with no option but to blow the whistle on the entire venture.’
‘How vey generous of you!’ Storm interrupted sarcastically, before she could stop herself.
Jago inclined his head, and the look he gave her held an implicit promise of retribution to come. Storm couldn’t help herself, her eyes dropped, her cheeks flushing with mortification. In the silence that followed it would have been possible to hear the proverbial pin drop.
‘I was warned that you were something of a firebrand, Storm,’ Jago said smoothly. ‘Well, let me tell you here and now if there are going to be any fireworks in this outfit, they’re going to originate from me, and they’re more likely to take the form of a rocket under your backside unless I see a drastic improvement.’
‘Doesn’t mince matters, does he?’ Pete murmured with an appreciative chuckle, but Storm did not bother to reply. All her attention was focused on the man facing her across David’s desk.
‘Is that understood?’ Jago asked. ‘Good.’ The cool grey eyes summed up their reaction, resting momentarily on Storm’s openly rebellious face. ‘A word of warning, Storm, before you get any idiotic ideas into your head—I have ways of turning firecrackers into damp squibs.’
‘I’ll just bet you have!’ Pete grinned appreciatively, while to Storm’s fury all the men with the exception of David laughed out loud. Closing ranks against the female in their midst, she thought resentfully, only her clenched hands betraying her feelings as she tried to appear both cool and unmoved.
‘I thought you’d come here to show us how to run the station at a profit, not reform my character,’ she riposted lightly, when the laughter had died down. Let him see how it felt to
be the object of everyone’s amusement!
He was watching her with a thoughtful narrowed gaze that made her heart thump uncomfortably and warned her that she had gone too far, then his expression lightened, amusement glinting in his eyes.
‘I’m perfectly capable of doing both,’ he assured her smoothly, an inflection in the words that sent a frisson of awareness shivering over her skin.
The others laughed again, but in Storm’s mind there was no doubt that the gage had been most definitely thrown down. But did she dare to pick it up? Some instinct more deep-rooted than any ordinary emotion warned her that to do so would be dangerous. And yet what had she to lose? Her job and her pride were surely more important to her than that.
‘In fact,’ Jago mused, his eyes on her slender curves, ‘I’m not sure if I won’t anyway. Taming shrews can sometimes have the most unexpected fringe benefits.’
This time there was no laughter. She caught David’s eye in a mute plea for help, willing him to tell Jago Marsh that if there was any taming to be done he was the one who would be doing it. But of course David would do no such thing, she acknowledged, and wasn’t it precisely because he would not that she loved him?
‘Perhaps if you could tear yourself away from your daydream, Storm?’
Engrossed in her thoughts, she had missed part of the conversation. The others were all looking expectantly at her, and she ran her tongue nervously round her dry lips.
‘Well?’ Jago prompted softly. ‘We’re all waiting. Perhaps you could enlighten us as to exactly why Radio Wyechester is such a resounding failure?’
How could David endure to stand there and listen to him? Storm wondered resentfully.