The Boss's Secret Mistress

by Alison Fraser

  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.

  ‘It’s not how it looks.’ He grimaced but was obviously relieved it was Tory and no one else. ‘It’s just that Sue’s husband is home on leave and I’ve had no time to make other arrangements.’

  Tory held in a sigh but she couldn’t do anything about the disapproving look on her face. Officially Alex was lodging with Sue Baxter, a secretary at Eastwich, while he fixed himself up with more permanent accommodation. Unofficially he was sleeping with her while her Naval Engineer husband was on tour of duty. Tory knew this because indiscretion was Sue Baxter’s middle name.

  She was a shallow, slightly vacuous woman, and what attraction Sue held for Alex was hard to fathom, but Tory kept her opinion to herself. Alex seemed intent on pushing his own self-destruct button and Tory felt ill-qualified to prevent him.

  ‘You won’t say anything, will you?’ He smiled a little boyishly at Tory, already knowing the answer.

  She shook her head, her loyalty guaranteed. She didn’t fancy Alex, though many women did. Nor was she sure if she liked him at times. But he had a vulnerable quality that brought out a protective streak in her.

  ‘You’d better not hang round here, looking like that,’ she said with some frankness.

  ‘I suppose not.’ Alex made another face. ‘I hear the new chief exec appeared in person yesterday.’

  Tory nodded. ‘I s
aid you were out researching a programme.’

  ‘I was, sort of,’ he claimed. It was as unconvincing as his rider of, ‘Pity I missed him.’

  Tory looked at him sceptically, but refrained from pointing out that, had Lucas Ryecart met Alex while he was in this condition, Alex might not still be on the Eastwich payroll.

  ‘Tory, I was wondering—’ he gave her an appealing look ‘—if I could go to your place. Just to clean up. And maybe get my head down for an hour or two.’

  Tory’s heart sank. She told herself to refuse point-blank, but it came out as a less definite, ‘I’m not sure, Alex. You know how tongues wag round here and if anyone saw you—’

  ‘They won’t,’ he promised. ‘ I’ll be the soul of discretion.’

  ‘Yes, but—’ Tory didn’t get the chance to finish before Alex smiled in gratitude at her.

  ‘You’re a great girl.’ He jumped up from his desk with some of his old enthusiasm. ‘A wash and brush-up, that’s all I need, and I’ll be a new man.’

  ‘All right.’ Tory was already regretting it as she relayed, ‘I have a spare key in my desk.’

  Alex picked up the quilt from the couch and stuffed it into a cupboard, before following her back down the corridor to her office.

  ‘You’ll need the address.’ She wrote it down on her telephone pad. ‘You can use the phone to find a hotel or something.’

  ‘Kind of you, Tory darling—’ he looked rueful ‘—but I’m afraid hotels are out till pay day. My credit rating is zero and the bank is refusing to increase my overdraft.’

  ‘What will you do? You can’t keep dossing down in the office,’ Tory warned.

  ‘No, you’re right. I don’t suppose you could…’ he began hopefully, then answered for himself, ‘No, forget it. I’ll find somewhere.’

  Tory realised what he’d been about to ask. She also understood he was still asking, by not asking. His eyes were focused on her like a homeless stray.

  She tried to harden her heart. She reminded herself that Alex earned a great deal more than her for doing a great deal less. Was it her problem that he couldn’t manage his money?

  ‘Never mind.’ He forced a brave smile. ‘I’ll be back on my feet soon. I’m due my annual bonus from Eastwich next month—that’s assuming this American chappie doesn’t cancel it.’

  Or cancel him, Tory thought as she looked at Alex through Lucas Ryecart’s eyes. He was a shambolic figure whose past awards would be just history.

  ‘Look, you can use my couch,’ Tory found herself offering, ‘until pay-day.’

  ‘Darling Tory, you’re a life-saver.’ A delighted Alex made to give her a hug but she fended him off.

  ‘And strictly on a keep-your-hands-to-yourself basis,’ she added bluntly.

  ‘Of course.’ Alex took a step from her and held up his hands in compliance. ‘No problem. I know you’re not interested.’

  He should do. Tory had made it clear enough in the beginning and Alex, philanderer though he undoubtedly was, respected the fact. He was also lazy; mostly he ended up with women who chased him. Being handsome in a slightly effete way, he drew a certain type of woman. Tory wasn’t included in their category.

  ‘Five days.’ Tory calculated when their next salary should appear in the bank.

  ‘Fine.’ Alex gave her another grateful smile before turning to go.

  ‘Alex,’ Tory called him back at the door, ‘try and stay sober, please.’

  For a moment Alex looked resentful, ready to protest his innocence. Tory’s expression stopped him. It wasn’t critical or superior or contemptuous. It was simply appealing.

  He nodded, then, acknowledging his growing problem, said, ‘If I don’t, I’ll crash somewhere else. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Tory hoped his promise was sincere. He wasn’t a violent drunk but she still didn’t want him round her place in that state.

  After Alex had gone, she wondered just how big a mistake she’d made. She knew it was one. She trusted it would turn out to be of the minor variety.

  Rather than dwell on it, she returned to her work, but was interrupted minutes later. Her door opened and she looked up, expecting to see Alex again. She stared wordlessly at the man in the doorway.

  Overnight she’d decided it was a passing attraction she’d felt towards Lucas Ryecart. Only it hadn’t yet. Passed, that was. Dressed in black jeans, white shirt and dark glasses, he was just as devastating.

  ‘How’s the tooth?’ he asked.

  ‘The tooth?’ she repeated stupidly.

  ‘Gone but not forgotten?’ he suggested.

  The tooth. Tory clicked. She’d have to acquire a better memory if she were going to take up lying to this man.

  ‘It’s fine,’ she assured. ‘Actually, I had forgotten all about it.’

  ‘Good.’ His eyes ran over her, making her feel her T-shirt outlined her body too clearly. ‘You didn’t have to come in. How do you usually spend your Saturdays?’

  The same way, Tory could have admitted, but somehow she didn’t think he’d be impressed, even if he now owned most of Eastwich. More like he’d think she had nothing better to do with her time.

  ‘It varies.’ She shrugged noncommittally, then glanced down at her work, as if anxious to get on with it.

  He noted the gesture, and switched to asking, ‘Has Simpson gone?’

  ‘Simpson?’ Tory stalled.

  ‘Alex Simpson.’ He leaned on the doorframe, eyes inscrutable behind the dark glasses. ‘At least I assume it was Simpson and not some passing bum, making himself at home in his office.’

  ‘Alex was here, yes,’ she confirmed and went on inventively, ‘He came in to catch up on his paperwork.’

  ‘He was catching up on some sleep when I saw him,’ countered Ryecart.

  ‘Really?’ Tory faked surprise quite well. ‘He did say he’d been in very early. Perhaps he nodded off without realising.’

  ‘Slept it off, is my guess,’ the American drawled back, and, pushing away from the door, crossed to sit on the edge of her desk. He removed the glasses and appraised her for a moment or two before adding, ‘Are you two an item? Is that it?’

  ‘An item?’ Tory was slow on the uptake.

  ‘You and Simpson, are you romantically involved?’ He spelt out his meaning.

  ‘No, of course not!’ Tory denied most vehemently.

  It had little impact, as the American smiled at her flash of temper. ‘No need to go nuclear. I was only asking. I hear Simpson has something of a reputation with women,’ he remarked, getting Tory’s back up further.

  ‘And from that you concluded that he and I…that we are…’ She was unwilling to put it into words.

  He did it for her. ‘Lovers?’

  Tory found herself blushing. He had that effect.

  He studied her, as if she were an interesting species, and her blush deepened. ‘I didn’t think women did that any more.’

  ‘Possibly not the women you know,’ Tory shot back before she could stop herself.

  He understood the insult. He could easily have sacked her for it. Instead he laughed.

  ‘True,’ he conceded. ‘I tend to prefer the more experienced kind. Less hassle. Lower expectations. And fewer recriminations at the end…Still, who knows? I could be reformed.’

  And pigs might fly, Tory thought as she wondered if he was flirting with her or just making fun.

  ‘What about you?’ he said with the same lazy smile.

  ‘Me?’ she asked. ‘Oh, I prefer the invisible kind. Much less hassle. Zero expectations. And absolutely no recriminations.’

  It took the American an instant to interpret. ‘You don’t date?’

  ‘I don’t date,’ Tory repeated but without his tone of disbelief, ‘and I don’t need reforming, either.’

  He looked puzzled rather than annoyed, his eyes doubting her seriousness.

  ‘Is that a targeted response,’ he finally asked, ‘or a general declaration of intent?’

  ‘Come again?’ Tor
y squinted at him.

  ‘Are you just telling me to take a hike,’ he translated, ‘or are all men off the agenda?’

  Tory debated how much she wanted to keep her job. Just enough to show some restraint, she decided, so she said nothing. Her eyes, however, said much more.

  ‘Me, I guess,’ he concluded with a confidence barely dented. ‘Well, never mind, I can live in hope.’

  He was laughing at her. He had to be. He wasn’t really interested in her. It was all a joke to him.

  He straightened from the edge of her desk, saying, ‘Would you have some idea how I might contact Simpson? ‘

  ‘I…I’m not sure.’ Having denied any relationship with Alex, Tory could hardly reveal the fact he was holed up at her place. ‘I might be able to get a message to him.’

  ‘Fine. I’ve asked all senior department heads to meet me, nine a.m. Monday, for a briefing,’ he explained. ‘It would be advisable for Simpson to attend.’

  Tory nodded. ‘I’ll tell him…I mean, if I get hold of him,’ she qualified, anxious to dispel the notion she and Alex had anything other than a business relationship.

  ‘Well, if you can’t, don’t worry about it,’ he ran on. ‘It’s Simpson’s problem if he can’t give Personnel a current telephone number.’

  Tory frowned. ‘But you saw him this morning.’

  ‘So why didn’t I wake him up?’ he asked the question that was clearly in her mind. ‘Let’s just say I thought the morning after wouldn’t be the best time to meet a new boss. What do you think?’

  Tory thought that remarkably fair of the American—to give Alex the chance to redeem himself. Of course, he might simply prefer to sack him when he was stone-cold sober.

  ‘Alex is a very good programme-maker,’ she declared staunchly. ‘He won a BAFTA three years ago.’

  ‘Simpson was a very good programme-maker,’ Lucas Ryecart corrected her, ‘and, in this business, you’re only as good as your last show. Simpson should know that.’

  Tory said nothing. Speaking up for Alex had cut no ice with this man.