The Boss's Proposal

by Cathy Williams

  When the door slammed behind him, she could feel her body slump, and it was blessed relief to finally leave the office at a little before five so that she could rush to her daughter and try and regain some of her lost sanity. Chloe would be a tonic, with her incessant chatter and her innocent preoccupation with her school day. It wouldn’t leave room in her head for Max.

  Unfortunately thoughts of him plagued her all through her daughter’s tea, and by the time she had settled Chloe upstairs and opened the door to the architect she felt wrung out.

  It didn’t help that the expression on his face as he was shown through the house made her realise, dejectedly, that the house really was in need of a serious overhaul and that it was now out of the question that any such overhaul would be forthcoming.

  ‘You do realise,’ he said thoughtfully, rocking on his heels and tapping his lips with his pen, ‘that you have damp.’ He led her across to one of the offending walls in the sitting room, fiddled around with a gadget and then held it up for her to see. ‘If something isn’t done about it fairly soon, the walls are going to deteriorate. Your idea about knocking through a couple of rooms would be a good way of clearing up the problem because we can do some damp-proofing at the same time.’ Over a cup of coffee, he continued to elaborate on her ideas, tossing in more enticing ones of his own, which Vicky listened to with a sinking heart.

  ‘I haven’t got money for all of that,’ she finally confessed bluntly. ‘I mean, I might just have to do a superficial job, at least for the time being. A paint job here and there, some wallpaper, maybe get some new furniture.’

  ‘Won’t take care of the damp.’

  ‘Well, what can you do about that?’ She frowned irritably, thinking that she hadn’t eaten her dinner as yet and her stomach was beginning to feel hollow. ‘You must be able to patch it up somehow.’

  ‘Patch-up jobs never really do the trick,’ he said gently. For an earnest, middle-aged architect he certainly had a winning salesman’s technique, she thought drily.

  ‘Well, I shall think about everything you’ve said.’

  ‘And I’ll send my detailed report through shortly,’ he told her, getting to his feet and handing her the cup of coffee. ‘I say go the whole way,’ he advised, walking ahead of her to the front door and throwing one last professional and withering glance around the hall. ‘It’ll cost you a fraction of what you would have to pay if you looked outside the company, and you wouldn’t have to wait months before work could begin.’

  Vicky opened the door swiftly before she could be further undermined by this subversive talk.

  ‘In fact,’ he said, pausing to look at her thoughtfully, ‘I’ve been told that the go-ahead for this particular project could be as early as next week. Just think, in less than four weeks you could turn this into the house of your dreams.’ The brown eyes crinkled at her and she laughed.

  ‘Go away before you win me over completely! I’ll think about it.’

  Which she did, as she made herself some beans on toast and untied her hair, running her fingers through its length, idly thinking that she really ought to go and get it all chopped off into a tailored hairstyle more suitable for a mum.

  Andy Griggs did a good line in persuasion, she thought. He hadn’t been pushy, but his assessment of the house and what it needed had been professional and honest. It was hardly his fault that some of his suggestions were so tempting that she had to stop herself salivating at the mouth at the thought of them. At one point, he’d even managed to persuade her that altering her staircase completely would transform the overall aspect of the house, and she’d inanely found herself agreeing. He would send his detailed analysis through, she thought, and she would promptly put it somewhere safe and out of sight. In a drawer somewhere. From which she might occasionally extract it, if only for the purpose of drooling. She certainly couldn’t see her way to chancing upon enough money to turn the project into reality, especially if the costs were non-subsidised, but who could tell what might happen in the future? There was always the Lottery. Should she ever decide to play it.

  She was washing her plate and glass, with the radio playing quietly in the background, when the doorbell went.

  He must have forgotten something, she thought irritably, because at a little before nine she was already beginning to wind down to her usual night-time routine of the news on television, followed by her book, followed by sleep. Or maybe he’d read the longing in her eyes at all his renovating proposals and in an act of pure sadism had written up all his plans in record time and intended to present her with them while she appeared vulnerable.

  She smiled at the thought of that and was still smiling when she pulled open the front door and saw Max Forbes standing on her doorstep, still in his working clothes, although he’d removed his tie and undone the top button of his shirt. The breeze had ruffled his dark hair and the darkness outside made his face appear more angular than usual.

  What was he doing here?

  She had to resist the temptation to peer behind her towards the stairwell, to make sure that Chloe hadn’t heard the ring of the doorbell and was drowsily making her way down the stairs.

  A series of futile whys pounded in her head like the blows of a hammer. Why had she ever applied to the wretched company for a job? Why had she stupidly accepted the job with him when it had been offered? Why had she somehow found herself persuaded to stay on, even though her common sense had repeatedly lectured her on the foolhardiness of her actions? And, most searingly brutal of all, why, why, why had she yielded to him in every possible way? Made love with him? Fallen in love with him?

  ‘Oh, hello,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’ Her hair, curling down her back, was an unwelcome reminder of her femininity, as was the clinging short-sleeved top which she had flung on minutes before Andy Griggs had rang her doorbell, and the tight faded jeans.

  ‘I was in the area and decided to come along and see how you had fared with Andy.’ He leant against the doorframe, supporting himself with his arm, invading her space so that she stepped back a few inches, though not enough to give him any room to enter.

  ‘You were in the area again? You seem to be in this area an awful lot.’

  ‘Warwick is a small place.’ He shrugged. ‘Some friends live near here and asked me over for a drink. I think they want to make a match with their daughter. She’s dull, rambling and conversationally unexciting. So, what did Andy say?’

  ‘Well, he had a lot of good ideas.’ Vicky gave in, though she still continued to block any possible sign of entry. ‘I told him that I’d give the whole thing a great deal of thought and then get back to him.’

  ‘But you won’t commit yourself to anything because of what happened between us,’ he prodded. ‘One of the reasons I had to see you was to ask you something that’s been on my mind for the past couple of hours. Do you feel unsafe when you’re around me? If you do, then you might as well move on. Do you think that if we’re alone together for more than five minutes I might grab you? Just because we happened to make love together once?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Vicky said tightly.

  ‘Sure?’ he asked softly, and she wondered whether he was trying to massage his own masculine ego by forcing her to admit that yes, he bothered her, and yes, she didn’t think straight when she was around him.

  ‘Quite sure. Now if that was all…’

  ‘Actually, not quite all.’ He produced some folded paper which he must have been holding the whole time but which she had failed to notice. ‘This document you typed to Dobson is completely off track.’

  ‘It is?’ She reached out for it, embarrassed to have been picked up on an error, even though she had been particularly careful with this one because of the nature of the client.

  ‘Have you got a PC with a printer? You’ll have to make all the alterations on it now because I’m going to have to get back to the office and fax it off so that they have it sitting with them by five-thirty tomorrow morning when Bill’s leaving for
the Far East to consult with their sister firm over there about the operations.’

  ‘Have you altered it on hard copy? If you have, you can leave it with me and I’ll make sure it arrives on his desk by tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘I’ve added a couple of extra paragraphs, so we’re going to have to go through this one together. Looks like I’m going to have to come in.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MAX looked at the unwilling set of her face and the stiffness of her shoulders and managed to sustain his implacable smile with effort. He knew that he shouldn’t be here at all, but that was a road he had no intention of going down. It led to too many frustrating questions.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked politely, cocking his head to one side and shoving his hands deeper into his trouser pockets. ‘I won’t stay very long. Just long enough to get this damn thing done, and it goes without saying that I wouldn’t have bothered coming here in the first place if you hadn’t typed the wrong information in the first place.’ He saw her colour deepen and felt a twinge of sheepish guilt. It galled him to realise that the changes he wanted to make were simply a handy excuse for showing up unannounced on her doorstep.

  Somehow, somewhere, he couldn’t get it out of his head that she was concealing a lover somewhere, and he vaguely thought that appearing out of the blue might smoke the man out.

  ‘Well,’ she hedged, looking up at him and chewing her bottom lip in a nervous gesture. ‘I was about to go to bed…’

  ‘At this hour?’ He looked at his watch with overdone amazement. ‘I’ve heard of quiet lives, but isn’t nine o’clock taking things a little far?’ He grinned, and wondered whether her intention of going to bed at an hour when most children over the age of thirteen were still up had anything to do with the mystery man, whose presence now seemed large, looming and gut-clenchingly real. Was he upstairs lying in the bed, sprawled and waiting? ‘Don’t tell me that you need your beauty sleep.’ He tried to peer around her up the staircase, which was shrouded in darkness and she followed the line of his eyes with an irritated click of her tongue.

  ‘Well, if you’re quite sure that this won’t take too long,’ she told him, standing back to allow him access. Chloe was safely ensconced upstairs, sound asleep. There was almost no chance that she would suddenly awaken and come downstairs. Her sleeping habits had always been predictable. When she got into bed, she went to sleep, and only roused when the first fingers of light were beginning to worm their way past the closed curtains and into the bedroom. She wasn’t one of those children who randomly prowled at odd hours in search of a warmer bed or a cup of juice or something to eat.

  Nevertheless, she could feel her eyes anxiously flicker up the stairs as she led him away from all possible danger points and into the relative safety of the kitchen.

  ‘I’m sorry about the mess,’ she said perfunctorily, making a space on the kitchen table for him to spread the paperwork. The kitchen was small, but it was the brightest room in the house. No chance of subdued lighting creating any kind of atmosphere or playing havoc with her common sense. ‘I’ve just finished eating.’

  ‘Oh, really? What?’ He made himself at home in one of the chairs, dumped the papers on the table and adjusted himself so that he could watch her as she self-consciously wiped the kitchen counter and put the kettle on to boil.

  ‘Just some beans on toast.’

  ‘I’m ravenous,’ he told her casually. ‘I dropped by the office on the way back from my meeting to collect this letter and then I came straight here to go through the corrections. Haven’t had anything to eat since lunchtime.’

  Vicky paused, turned to face him and met his candid gaze with a flicker of impatience. ‘Are you hinting for something to eat?’

  ‘Well, I would have had more than enough time to dine out this evening with…to have a meal if I hadn’t been compelled to rush over here and get this matter sorted out post haste.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing fancy in the fridge.’ She wondered what he would say if she offered him some fish fingers with potato shapes, or turkey dinosaurs with spaghetti hoops. ‘I could fix you a cheese sandwich.’

  ‘Beans on toast would be better.’ He stretched out his long legs in front of him, crossing them at the ankles and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Haven’t had that since…since I was a child, come to think of it.’

  Vicky moved to the cupboard and began opening a can of baked beans, the contents of which she proceeded to dump into the saucepan which she’d used for heating her own only half an hour before. Then she stuck two slices of bread into the toaster and turned to face him, leaning against the counter, arms folded.

  ‘What do your girlfriends cook for you?’ she asked innocently, her eyes wide open. Girlfriends, she thought, as opposed to drunken one-night stands with employees. Girlfriends who did normal, girlfriendy things like cook meals instead of one-night stands who were in the position of being ordered to cancel their plans for the evening, prepare some food, and then, for that after-dinner treat, sit down and go through a load of work which would have to be typed until heaven only knew what time in the morning.

  ‘Not beans on toast,’ he said succinctly, and Vicky ploughed on with fatalistic intensity.

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘If I recall, a couple of them tried to prepare elaborate three-course meals…’

  ‘Tried?’

  ‘My kitchen isn’t equipped for the preparation of elaborate three-course meals. God, that smells good. Any chance of some grated cheese over the top?’

  The bread popped up and she liberally spread butter on it, then poured the entire tin of beans over both slices and finished the ensemble with a generous helping of grated cheese which melted into the beans. She stuck the plate in front of him and watched as he rearranged himself so that he could dig in. Anyone would think that he was enjoying a piece of the finest steak.

  ‘If I recall, you have an extremely well-equipped kitchen.’

  ‘Oh, that was before I had the new kitchen installed. Have you anything to drink? A cup of tea, perhaps? White, two sugars.’

  ‘Sure that’ll be all? I can always rustle up some plum crumble for afters,’ Vicky informed him with sweetly biting sarcasm, unable to resist. He looked at her, fork poised en route to mouth, and she added quickly, ‘It was a joke.’

  ‘Plum crumble. A fading memory.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! If your girlfriends can whip up gourmet meals, they’re perfectly equipped to rustle up beans on toast and plum crumble. Please stop acting as though it requires talent.’

  ‘A good plum crumble requires a great deal of talent,’ he contradicted. ‘And my girlfriends don’t rustle up beans on toast for me, or anything else, for that matter, because I don’t encourage that sort of thing.’

  Vicky looked at him, mouth open, as though he had suddenly taken leave of his senses. ‘You don’t encourage that sort of thing?’ she asked, confused. ‘What’s the point of having that kitchen if you never use it?’ Comprehension dawned in her eyes. ‘Oh, I get it. You are the one to do the cooking!’ She imagined him whipping up an impressive array of food in under ten minutes and clad only in an apron. It was a sexist thought but irresistible. If she were the woman in his life, she would insist that he prepare her a meal, wearing nothing but a white apron, and she would fondle him as he cooked, distracting him with the tantalising flicker of her fingers on his body. She blinked away the sexy thought.

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’ He finished eating with a gratified sigh of pleasure and stood up with the plate, heading to the sink and washing it without waiting for her to intercept him. ‘I don’t like women cooking for me, just in case it gives them ideas…’

  ‘What kind of ideas?’ Vicky asked, at a loss.

  ‘Ideas of permanence.’

  ‘Oh, those kind of ideas.’ She nodded wisely. ‘Very clever of you. What man in his right mind would want a woman to get ideas of permanence? When he can enjo
y fruits of a relationship with no commitment or strings attached?’

  Max turned very slowly to face her, and he slung the tea towel over his shoulder. Incongruously, it made him look all the more dangerously masculine. ‘I don’t think this has much to do with the purpose of my visit, do you?’ he asked softly, and Vicky felt herself flush with shame. She’d reluctantly let him come in through lack of choice, even though she realised the necessity of getting him out as quickly as possible, and yet here she was, indulging in pointless conversation just because her curiosity was niggling away at her.

  ‘Right.’ She briskly wiped her hands on a towel, sat down at the kitchen table and shuffled the papers around to face her. The first set of corrections, which were done insultingly in bright red pen, made her frown. ‘Are you sure these haven’t been typed correctly? I mean you’re just rephrasing what was said in the original draft.’

  ‘I’ve added bits in,’ Max informed her testily.

  ‘Relevant bits?’

  ‘Are you questioning me?’

  ‘No, of course not, I just wondered…’ Her voice trailed off into silence as she quickly inspected the rest of the documents. With a spot of rapid typing, she would be able to get this lot done in under forty-five minutes. ‘My computer’s in the utility,’ she said, standing up and flicking through the paper. ‘Give me a few minutes and I should be able to have this all typed up for you.’ When he stood up, she eyed him sceptically. ‘I shouldn’t bother,’ she said, ‘The utility’s a bit on the cramped side.’