The Boss's Secret Mistress

by Alison Fraser

‘You’re coming back for me?’

  He nodded. ‘Sure. I’ll take you on to your hotel.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ Tory dismissed quickly. ‘I can get a taxi.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘My hotel.’

  ‘Which is?’

  Tory frowned. What game were they playing now?

  ‘You tell me,’ she countered.

  ‘I will when I find out,’ he agreed. ‘I’ve left Colin Mathieson’s secretary to arrange it.’

  ‘Right.’ She should have known he wouldn’t bother with any matter so trivial. ‘I’ll wait here for you, then.’

  ‘I’ll give you a call when I’m on my way,’ he suggested. ‘What’s your cell-phone number?’

  ‘I’ll write it down.’ She started to look in her bag for paper.

  ‘That’s okay,’ he dismissed. ‘Just tell me it.’

  She did as he asked, and he repeated it as if it was already committed to memory.

  Tory had her doubts. She certainly couldn’t memorise an eleven-digit number after one hearing. But who knew what this man could do?

  ‘I’d better go.’ She glanced at her watch again. ‘I don’t want to be late for my interview.’

  ‘Good luck, then.’

  ‘I thought the job was mine.’

  ‘It is,’ he assured. ‘That’s the easy part.’

  Tory supposed he was right. Convincing the rest of the magazine staff that she was a bona fide features editor might prove more difficult.

  She finally climbed out of the car and walked up the steps of the magazine office, conscious that Lucas had yet to drive away. She turned round and he saluted her briefly. She didn’t wave back but went ahead through the revolving doors that opened out into a reception.

  ‘Yes.’ An elegant blonde looked her up and down from behind a desk.

  Tory said her name and she noticed the blonde’s eyes flicker with recognition but no warmth before she was asked to take a seat in Reception.

  She’d barely sat and picked up this month’s edition of Toi when another identikit blonde arrived to escort her upstairs to the personnel director’s office.

  The interview was, as Lucas had said, just a formality, but she sensed the director wasn’t altogether enthusiastic about her reason for being there. He used the expression ‘the powers that be’ when he referred to the magazine’s new owner, Chuck Wiseman, and just stopped short of calling the team-bonding weekend psychological claptrap. He also warned her that, due to the unusual circumstances surrounding her hiring, she might possibly encounter some hostility from the editorial staff.

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ she queried this statement. ‘Do you mean some know why I’m here?’

  ‘Not that, no,’ the personnel director assured her. ‘If they did, we might have a walk-out on our hands. In fact, I have warned the powers that be of just such a consequence if you are discovered.’

  ‘Then why should they be hostile?’ she pursued.

  ‘I’m only speculating on the possibility,’ he backtracked a little. ‘After all, there were at least two junior editors who felt they were in line for your post plus the fact it was never advertised. To all intents and purposes, you appear to have been given the job purely on personal recommendation from, let’s say, above.’

  ‘I see.’ Tory did, too. She was joining a woman’s magazine—a notoriously bitchy work environment, anyway—already viewed as someone’s protégé. ‘Who do they imagine has imposed me?’

  ‘There are various theories,’ he hedged, ‘which I won’t go into. I just feel you should be warned that you may get a somewhat frosty reaction.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Tory pulled a face.

  She sensed he wasn’t in the least bit sympathetic. Someone had obviously ridden roughshod over him, too.

  ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much I can do to improve the situation,’ he added in the same cool tones.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll survive.’ Tory was sure she would.

  The mishmash of types found on a woman’s magazine was hardly as scary as some of the loud-mouthed, disaffected girls with whom she’d gone to school. At least no one here was likely to threaten to beat her up for her lunch money.

  ‘I’m glad you’re so confident.’ He clearly didn’t share the feeling. ‘Anyway, I’ll show you round the editorial department.’

  She followed him to the lifts and they went back down to the editorial floor which was largely open plan. Tory trailed in his wake, conscious of curious eyes on her.

  They stopped at a closed office at the end and Tory was introduced to Amanda Villiers, the editor-in-chief, who was currently conducting a meeting with several staff.

  If she hadn’t been pre-warned, Tory would not have understood Amanda Villiers’s attitude. While on the surface her new boss was all polite handshake and smiles, there was an edge to every remark she made.

  ‘I read your résumé with interest,’ she drawled. ‘The Cornpickers Times, that was your first job, wasn’t it? Features editor of the women’s page.’

  ‘Cornwall Times,’ Tory corrected, while knowing the mistake had been deliberate.

  Amanda was playing to an audience and several of her staff had dutifully tittered at her remark.

  ‘Whatever.’ Amanda Villiers smiled tightly. ‘I didn’t come up the provincial route. What does one write about for farmers’ wives? How to get sheep dye from under their fingernails? Or how to prepare the perfect Boeuf en Croute—after one’s killed it first, of course.’

  Tory laughed, having some idea she wasn’t meant to, and Amanda looked a little surprised.

  ‘You’ve forgotten knit yourself a designer sweater, using your own flock,’ suggested Tory on the same theme and took the wind out of Amanda’s sails.

  ‘Yes, well, all very fascinating, I’m sure,’ Amanda said with a dismissive air, ‘but a national women’s magazine is, of course, a whole different world. Not that I need to tell you that. You did two years on that French magazine…what’s it called again?’

  Good question. Tory had spent an hour of the car journey that afternoon memorising her CV but it evidently hadn’t been long enough.

  ‘I don’t imagine anyone’s heard of it,’ she murmured evasively.

  ‘No, I certainly hadn’t—’ Amanda sniffed ‘—but, do tell, darling, how does one go from the Cornish Times to some sub-porno in Paris?’

  Tory considered declaring herself not the type of person to work on a sub-porno, but she was already having enough trouble building any credibility without discussing ethics.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she told the room at large, ‘with which I may bore everyone when we’re lying in our sleeping bags listening to the wind whistling round our tents.’

  ‘Oh, God, the adventure weekend.’ Amanda groaned aloud. ‘You know about it and you still want to work here? You must be desperate.’

  ‘I’m sure the job will make up for it.’ Tory forced some enthusiasm into her voice.

  Amanda looked sceptical and turned to a younger woman on her right. ‘What do you think, Sam? You’ve been doing the job for the last six months. Is it worth a weekend in some godforsaken spot in the dales?’

  Sam, a woman of about thirty, glanced between her boss, Amanda, and Tory, before making some inaudible comment, then staring rigidly at the notepad in front of her.

  The set of her shoulders betrayed anger barely held in check. The only question was, where was this anger directed: at Tory who’d prevented her from being promoted, or the taunting Amanda whom Tory herself already felt like pushing off a cliff, given half a chance?

  ‘Anyway, I’d better introduce you round.’ Amanda finally remembered her manners and rattled off names and job titles too quickly for Tory to assimilate. ‘When do you start?’

  ‘As soon as possible,’ Tory replied briefly.

  ‘In that case, grab a pew,’ Amanda suggested and left Tory with little choice.

  She couldn’t count on rescue from the personnel director beca
use he was on his way out, problem disposed of.

  Still, what happened next was familiar territory after that morning. While Amanda conducted a brainstorming session on cosmetic surgery, Tory was once again made to feel part of the furniture. Ideas were thrown up for discussion, opinions sought, criticisms levied but no one sought to include Tory in any of it.

  This was not altogether surprising as the rest took their lead from Amanda and, having humiliated Tory sufficiently for the moment, the editor now ignored her totally.

  Just as well, Tory realised, because she had little positive to say on the subject of breast implants or liposuction. She accepted some women felt the need for self-improvement but it seemed a growing obsession, the quest for the body beautiful. Magazines were full of such articles and the only question was whether they were documenting or feeding the phenomenon.

  ‘What about you, Victoria?’ Amanda finally addressed her. ‘Have you had any fine tuning? Boob job, perhaps?’ She glanced towards Tory’s moderately sized chest, before deciding, ‘No, maybe not… That nose, however. Very retroussé. What do you think, girls?’

  Two of the women laughed as if she’d said something witty but a young woman at the end of the table seemed to suppress a sigh.

  It made Tory wonder just what hidden tensions would be exposed after so many unrelieved hours in each other’s company over the weekend.

  For herself, she was already glad she worked for Eastwich and Alex for all his faults rather than the autocratic Amanda.

  When Tory’s cell-phone interrupted the meeting, Amanda gave her a look of pity before drawling, ‘A golden rule, darling, mobiles off during meetings. I thought you’d have known that.’

  Tory grimaced—as far as she was going to get to apology—and read the number calling. It was another mobile. She guessed it was Lucas.

  ‘Who is it?’ Amanda asked impatiently.

  ‘A friend, he’s giving me a lift,’ Tory explained.

  ‘Man friend?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  Amanda actually sounded more sincere than usual but Tory waited for the punchline. When it didn’t come, she offered, ‘I’ll ask him to call back later.’

  ‘No, don’t bother. Time to wrap up, don’t you think, mes enfants?’

  The others nodded and Tory wondered if any ever disagreed with Amanda. Perhaps any who had were long gone.

  ‘Well, answer him,’ Amanda instructed, ‘before he gives you up for dead.’

  ‘All right… Hi,’ she said into the mouthpiece.

  Lucas replied simply, ‘I’m outside.’

  ‘Okay, be there in a moment,’ she promised and rang off.

  ‘Masterful type, is he?’ Amanda concluded from this brief exchange.

  ‘You could say that.’ Tory nodded back.

  ‘Love those, myself,’ Amanda commented, ‘in bed, at any rate. Not so keen when they’re strutting about, demanding their socks washed and their breakfast cooked.’

  Tory forced a laugh and wondered briefly if it was in the job description—to laugh at Amanda’s jokes.

  ‘Well, run along, mustn’t keep him waiting, Vicki, darling,’ the older woman urged in mocking tones that had Tory gritting her teeth.

  But she did as she was told, anxious to get away from Amanda and her coven.

  Fortunately she remembered her way back to the lift because no one volunteered to escort her, although she did find herself waiting with one of the other sub-editors. She recognised the girl who went in for sighing rather than sniggering.

  ‘So what’s your opinion?’ the girl asked as they descended in the lift together. ‘Think you’ll like it here?’

  Tory shrugged. ‘Early days.’

  ‘She doesn’t get any better,’ the girl drawled back, ‘and she seems to have developed a pretty instant dislike of you, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  Tory actually did mind, especially as it reinforced her own suspicions that working for Amanda was going to be a nightmare. Thank God, it was only temporary.

  ‘I’ll live with it,’ Tory said at length.

  Her lift companion regarded her with a look that seemed to waiver between pitying and admiring before the doors slid open and they parted in the reception area.

  Tory didn’t hang around. In fact, she almost ran down the steps to Lucas’s awaiting car.

  ‘How was it?’ he said as she climbed into the passenger seat.

  She released a breath of pent-up anger, before responding, ‘Don’t ask!’

  ‘That bad?’ he concluded.

  ‘Worse.’ Tory shuddered even before she spotted Amanda emerging from the building.

  He followed her gaze. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘The editor from hell.’ She grimaced. ‘Can we go?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ he agreed easily and, putting the car in gear, drove towards the exit. ‘I take it you were introduced.’

  ‘More than introduced,’ she relayed. ‘After the briefest of inductions, the personnel director abandoned me to the pack.’

  ‘The pack?’

  ‘Editorial staff,’ she qualified, ‘but, believe me, the lions of the Serengeti would definitely seem friendlier.’

  He laughed, then saw from her face she wasn’t really joking. ‘You don’t think your cover was already blown.’

  She shook her head. ‘More a case of noses out of joint. Apparently one of them has been Acting Features Editor for months so she’s hardly overjoyed by my appearance and, as for the editor-in-chief, Amanda Villiers, she resents having some nobody from nowhere imposed on them through suspect channels.’

  ‘Well, never mind,’ he tried to console, ‘you only have to put up with it for a few days.’

  ‘It’s going to seem like weeks,’ she complained. ‘Forget their open hostility, have you ever tried pretending to be someone you’re not?’

  ‘Actually, yes,’ he replied. ‘I once passed myself off as the deaf and dumb son of a goat-herder in Northern Afghanistan.’

  ‘Is that a joke?’ The amused note in his voice certainly suggested it was.

  ‘Not particularly, although it had its humorous moments,’ he confided, before explaining, ‘I was covering the Russian/Afghani conflict when I ended up in a situation where being an American journalist wasn’t good for the health… Mind you, neither’s going without food for a couple of days, but I survived,’ he finished with a dry laugh.

  Tory realised it was a true story. She had forgotten his former life as a foreign correspondent. This was the first he’d alluded to it.

  ‘All right, you win.’ She picked up the not-so-hidden message. ‘I admit working undercover at Toi hardly rates in the danger stakes, but I’m still nervous about blowing it. I mean, I only know in the vaguest of terms what a features editor does. I’m going to be as hopeless as they think I am.’

  Lucas pondered the last remark before pointing out, ‘But if they’re expecting you to mess up, it won’t matter if you do, will it?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Tory agreed. ‘I just don’t want to give Amanda Villiers the satisfaction.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve heard she’s pretty monstrous.’

  ‘You’ve heard? From whom?’

  ‘Chuck. At least, I’m guessing it’s the same woman. He calls her Mandy.’

  ‘To her face?’ Tory didn’t think that would go down well.

  ‘I guess so.’ Lucas nodded. ‘He took her out for lunch once and I don’t see Chuck calling her Miss Villiers.’

  ‘A business lunch, you mean?’ pursued Tory.

  He shrugged. ‘Could have been… Is she pretty?’

  Tory blinked at the question, before saying, ‘Possibly. That was her on the steps.’

  ‘Maybe not business, then,’ he judged. ‘Chuck certainly has an eye for a pretty lady.’

  Tory glanced in his direction and saw the smile slanting his lips. It seemed he admired his stepfather for this.

  ‘Isn’t he…well, isn’t he…?’ She found no tactful way
to express her doubts.

  He did it for her, saying, ‘Too old? Yeah, probably. But women don’t seem to mind that. Chuck has a lot of charm. A lot of money, too,’ he added dryly.

  ‘And it doesn’t bother you?’ Tory couldn’t resist asking.

  He thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Chuck’s smart enough to look out for himself.’

  It didn’t really answer her question. ‘But what about your mother? Does she still care?’

  He shook his head. ‘Mom’s been dead twenty years.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said automatically.

  He gave her a quizzical look. ‘What for?’

  ‘Being nosy, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I took it as a good sign.’

  ‘Sign?’ She was wary once more.

  ‘That you’re at least interested enough in me to ask such personal questions,’ he stated, a smile in his voice.

  Tory just stopped herself from saying, Don’t flatter yourself, and responded instead, ‘I was making conversation. That’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’ He made a pacifying gesture with his hand. ‘But for the record I am a forty-one-year-old widower. Both parents dead. No dependants. Sane. Healthy. Solvent. No unusual vices.’

  His autobiography sounded so like a personal ad, Tory pointed out, ‘You missed out with G.S.O.H. and W.L.T.M. young, attractive female for fun relationship.’

  It drew a laugh before he drawled back, ‘I find people who claim to have a good sense of humour often don’t, and I’ve already met the young attractive female, thanks very much, although I’m not sure she goes in for “fun relationships”.’

  He meant her, of course. At least, Tory assumed he did. But she could hardly know for certain unless she asked him and that seemed a very unwise thing to do.

  Her glance found him wearing the amused expression that was pretty much a fixture on his face.

  ‘No comment?’ he prompted.

  Tory gritted her teeth, ‘I doubt she’s your type, then.’

  ‘We’ll have to see,’ he replied, smile still in place. ‘Meanwhile, let’s get you settled in your hotel. It’s called The Balmoral, Kingscote Avenue and is somewhere in W10.’

  Tory picked up the A to Z once more and located their current position. Finding the hotel was something else. For all its grand name it was tucked away in a back street of a rather down-at-heel part of Earl’s Court.