by Helen Brooks
FIRE BENEATH THE ICE by Helen Brooks
CHAPTER ONE
"I hope you haven't got me another empty-headed little bimbo out there,
Connoly, who is more interested in a chip in her nail varnish than getting on with the damn job."
"Mr. Strade--' " I told you my requirements last night and I meant what I said. Grey hair, middle-aged, with nothing less than a first-class typing speed and skirts down to her ankles, OK? "
"Please, Mr. Strade--' Lydia found her mouth had fallen open in a little 0 of shocked surprise as she stood; waiting in the outer office where Mr. Connoly had positioned her thirty seconds before. He had smiled at her apologetically before scuttling into the inner sanctum of the chairman and managing director of Strade Engineering, motioning for her to stay where she was until he returned. He had obviously intended to shut the door, but it had opened the merest crack after he had closed it and now the conversation of the two men inside was clearly audible.
"You changed the agency?" the hard masculine voice continued grimly.
"Yes, Mr. Strade." She could just imagine Mr. Connoly's thin, nervous face trying to smile.
"Of course. But you must understand that it was such short notice that most of their employees were already in a position."
"And that means?"
"This lady is extremely capable, I do assure you, and _I'm sure she will meet all your work requirements admirably." The nervous squeak wouldn't have convinced Lydia, and clearly Mr. Strade was of the same opinion.
"She isn't a blonde-haired bombshell, is she?" the harsh voice asked tightly.
"It's going to be another few months before Mrs. Havers comes back after this damn maternity leave, and already I've endured two females who were a dam sight more interested in the size of my bank balance than doing the job they were hired for. Short skirts and fluttering eyelashes have their time and place, but my office is not one of them. Are you sure this one isn't on the make?"
Enough was enough. The flood of anger that burnt hotly through Lydia's pale, creamy skin brought her small chin militantly upwards and made her deep brown eyes shoot sparks. Who on earth did this creep think he was? Robert Redford and Richard Gere rolled into one?
She had pushed open the door and stepped into the huge plush room beyond before she had time to consider what she was going to say.
"Do excuse the interruption, gentlemen," she said coolly, her eyes sweeping in magnificent disdain over the two men standing by the far window, 'but in view of your conversation, I hardly think there is any point in my waiting any longer. I'll see myself out. " The sunlight streaming in through the panoramic plate glass held the two men in silhouette, although one was clearly taller and broader than the other and it was to this figure that she addressed the last remark.
"Do have a good day, Mr. Strade," she finished with acid sweetness as she turned to leave.
"Stay exactly where you are." She didn't even think about disobeying him; there was something in the deep voice that demanded and received
acquiescence, although her chin raised itself another notch as she swung round to face the two men again.
"As they moved from the window and into focus she was aware of two thoughts striking her simultaneously, both of which were acutely unwelcome in the circumstances. One was that the tall figure just in front of Mr. Connoly was hopping mad, if the scowl on his dark face was anything to go by, and the other? The other was that he was the most attractive man she had seen for a long time. She hadn't been far wrong with the Robert Redford and Richard
Gere comparison, she thought weakly as he came to a halt just in front of her, his six-foot frame seeming to dwarf her slim, petite five feet four.
"Yes?" She raised her eyes to meet the arctic blue of his, her face straight. He had been rude, incredibly, unforgivably rude, and if he thought she was going to crawl now he'd soon find out differently.
"What the hell do you mean by bursting into my office uninvited?" he asked cut tingly his eyes moving to her ash-blonde hair, secured in a neat and demure French plait at the back of her head, with more than a touch of resigned contempt in the blue gaze.
"Blonde-haired bombshell'. The words spoken with such raw harshness came back to her. Well, she had blonde hair, that much was for sure, and she'd die before she apologised for the fact, especially to a male chauvinist pig like this one.
"Don't be so ridiculous, Mr. Strade," she said coolly, blessing the impulse that had made her wear her best suit that morning instead of the usual blouse and pencil- slim skirt she favoured. The expensive material and beautiful cut of the suit always made her feel good, and she had felt, after the agency had rung, that she might need something of a boost if she was stepping into the domain of such an illustrious and well-known mogul as Strade of Strade
Engineering. Little had she known then how right she was!
"I did not burst into your office, as you are well aware. The door was open and
I had been asked to wait just outside, where every word of your conversation with Mr. Connoly was received loud and clear. In view of the fact that I only qualify on one of the requirements you laid out in such graphic detail, I assumed there was no point in my continuing to wait. "
"And that is?" he asked coldly. The frown had died now, to be replaced by an expression of almost blank coolness.
"My typing speed." It was hard work to keep her gaze from faltering from the rapier-sharp eyes, but she was determined to hang on in there.
"My hair is blonde, I am twenty-seven years of age and my skirt--' she glanced down for just a second to the tapered material that finished just below her knees '--is not ankle-length," she finished tightly.
"No..." His eyes had followed hers and lingered for just a second on the length of slender leg encased in gossamer-thin stockings the skirt exposed.
"No, it isn't." As the icy gaze met hers again she found it hard to stop a shiver from showing. There was a coldness in his eyes, his whole face, that was positively raw in its bleakness, turning the high, chiselled cheekbones and square, hard jaw into stone. He had to be the most detached, unapproachable man she had ever met in her whole life. And the two girls before her had made a pass at this block of ice? She'd like to shake their hands for sheer nerve.
"Goodbye, then, Mr. Strade." She hadn't even begun to turn this time when the frosty voice rang out again.
do the hiring and firing, and as yet I am not aware that either applies.
You came for an interview and my _time is valuable and not to be wasted. Sit down, Miss. "
"I'd rather not." She didn't know where this aplomb was coming from--perhaps the chill that was emanating from him was affecting her, because in all fairness she should feel grossly intimidated, but instead her cheeks were burning with rage.
"And it's Worth, Mrs. Worth," she finished with cold emphasis.
"You're married?" The relief on his face was transparent and added to
Lydia's sense of outrage. What did he expect her to do, for goodness' sake?
Leap over the desk and rip off his trousers at the slightest encouragement?
The man's ego was jumbo-sized.
"Yes, but I really don't think--' " Please sit down, Mrs. Worth. “The transformation was sudden and breathtaking. What had been a block of stone metamorphosed instantly into “the secretary's ideal of the perfect boss--smiling, handsome and exuding benevolence.
"We seem to have got off on the wrong foot, for which I accept the blame entirely."
It was a twenty-four-carat smile, she had to give him that, Lydia thought weakly as she felt herself persuaded into the large, easy seat opposite the magnificent shiny desk in gleaming walnut. Mr. Connoly still continued to hover anxiously at his managing director's side, h
is mild, watery eyes begging her to be reasonable.
"Could we put this unfortunate episode aside and begin anew?" The vivid blue eyes fastened on her again and she realised with a little jolt that they were still as hard as iron. She had read somewhere that the eyes were considered windows to the soul in some cultures, and if that were the case. The shiver returned tenfold.
"I don't know how much Mr. Connoly has told you about the position, but my very able and efficient secretary is at _present on maternity leave." The harsh twist to his mouth as he spoke revealed his opinion of the poor woman's amazing audacity more eloquently than any words could have done.
"The agency we were with until yesterday provided... unsuitable replacements, and I do not have the time or the inclination to continue along that particular avenue." His scathing comments on her predecessors returned with renewed vigour and she nodded noncommittally as her mind raced.
"I want a secretary for the next few months who is prepared to work hard and be flexible when the occasion warrants it," he continued coldly.
"Mrs. Havers was forced to leave a month early due to some unforeseen difficulties, so I have been left in rather a vulnerable position, and I don't like that, Mrs. Worth." His smile was ironic.
"I don't like that at all. “She glanced again at the firm, cruel mouth and ruthless, handsome face and nodded mentally. She could believe that, very definitely. She didn't smile back.
"For the right person, the rewards will match the dedication I require," he said quietly, after waiting a moment for her to speak, 'but you understand this is not a nine- to-five job. "
As Mr. Connoly opened his mouth to speak, the other man glanced at him, motioning towards the door with a hard flick of his wrist.
"Coffee, I think, Ted? Perhaps you'd organise that he asked coldly.
"Certainly, certainly." Mr. Connoly fairly scampered across the room and out of the door, clearly glad to be out of a potentially difficult situation.
"Mr. Strade, I don't think--' He cut across her voice as though he hadn't heard her, his tone reasonable, but with that underlying thread of steel that made her hackles rise.
"The salary is not the _usual agency rate, but if you accept the position you will earn every penny." He mentioned a figure that made her eyes widen and her mouth open slightly before she closed it with a little snap. With that amount guaranteed even for two or three months, she could afford to redecorate Hannah's bedroom, turning it from a nursery into a little girl's room, and perhaps even lash out on a new carpet for the lounge--the other was threadbare. And definitely those outstanding bills wouldn't keep her awake any longer at night. But to work in close contact with this man each and every day? Could she endure it?
"Of course, you may feel that, with family commitments, you couldn't accept such a post if it was offered."
"I'm sorry?" She raised her head from mental calculations of gas, electricity and water bills, realising she hadn't heard a word he'd said in the last thirty seconds.
"Your husband," he said patiently, his face expressionless.
"Perhaps he would object to you working late or having to take off at short notice for a couple of days? It is not unusual for me to have to visit my subsidiaries at an hour's notice and, as I have branches in Scotland, Wales,
Manchester and Ireland, it often necessitates an overnight stay. Some husbands would find this unacceptable."
Now was the moment to tell him. She stared across the desk into the austere face opposite her, but images of pink frilly curtains and flowery bedspreads and Hannah's little face came between. If she told him she was a widow, she would be out of the door before she could say Jack Robinson, she thought frantically. He would think she was available, or at least that she thought he was available, she corrected mentally. And she knew that he was the last person on this earth she could harbour any romantic inclinations for, so where was the harm in a little unspoken deceit? And she wouldn't actually lie, not really. And she needed that money, desperately. The mortgage had been paid off after Matthew's death but the old, draughty terraced house ate gas and electricity, and the last three years had been an uphill struggle to survive on what she could earn. If her mother, herself a widow, hadn't insisted on helping out as unpaid child-minder, financial waters would have closed over her head more than once. "Mrs. Worth?" Now the hard, deep voice was clearly impatient.
"Would your husband find unsocial hours unacceptable?" he asked tightly.
"No." She raised her head and stared him straight in the eye.
"No, he wouldn't," she answered firmly.
"Good." He settled back on the corner of the desk where he was perched, looking down at her.
"Then perhaps this might be the time for a short test of your skills. You do shorthand as well as audiotyping?"
"Yes." She slipped a hand down to her bag and brought out notebook and pencil.
"When you're ready."
Half an hour later, as she presented a neatly typed, well-set out report in front of him, he glanced up from his desk, his eyes narrowed.
"Sit down, Mrs. Worth." He flicked through the pages quickly and nodded slowly. "Excellent. The job is yours if you want it."
"I..." Did she want it? She glanced down at his lowered head, noticing the gleam of red in his black hair-- virile, thick, strong hair. Her stomach muscles clenched in an involuntary spasm she was at a loss to understand.
No, she was suddenly quite sure she didn't want the job if it entailed being close to this man for a few hours every day, but she did want the money, No, not want, need.
"Well?" The icy blue gaze was suddenly fixed on her _flushed face and she took a deep silent breath as she struggled for composure.
"Thank you, Mr. Strade," she said levelly.
"I would like the job, please."
"Good." His eyes lowered to the papers on his desk that he had been studying when she had entered the room from the secretary's office just beyond.
"Go and get yourself a cup of coffee and a sandwich and make any phone calls you mink necessary; you'll be working late tonight. I've a hell of a lot of work to catch up on."
He hadn't asked if she had any children, she thought bemusedly as she left the room. Hadn't it occurred to him?
She had just reached the desk in the outer office when the buzzer on the intercom sounded stridently, making her jump a mile.
"Yes?" As she flicked the switch she was annoyed to find her voice 'a little breathless.
"I forgot to ask." His voice- was uncompromisingly severe.
"Are there any little Worths?" She knew what he wanted her answer to be, and it would be easy to lie, but somehow she couldn't deny Hannah's presence in her life, even if it meant losing this golden opportunity for the pair of them to get on their feet.
"Yes." She kept her voice steady and clear.
"I have a daughter aged three, Mr. Strade."
"Oh." She could tell he had expected a denial.
"You have an understanding child-minder?" he asked coolly.
"Hannah is looked after by my mother when I'm at work, and she is very flexible. The hours will be no problem." She could feel her heart thudding as she waited for his reply. Suddenly the amount of money he was offering was desperately important.
"She's a widow and likes the company," she added quietly.
"Be back in the office by twelve, Mrs. Worth." The flick of a switch signalled the end of their conversation and she stared at the closed door of his office as her heartbeat returned to normal. He really was the original ice-man but. She sank down on the upholstered typist's chair at the smart desk as her thoughts raced on. He had given her a chance and she was honest enough to admit that quite a few men in his position would have hesitated in taking on a secretary with a young daughter in tow, however temporary the position, in view of the travelling and long hours the job entailed.
She was back in the outer office within half an hour of leaving it, after a brief explanatory phone call to her mother, who responded with matern
al encouragement, after which Lydia gulped a hasty cup of coffee in the splendid canteen and decided against one of the delicious meals on offer. She bought a pack of ham sandwiches to eat later--she was far too nervous to eat anything now in spite of having skipped breakfast once the agency rang--and returned to the thickly carpeted, hushed opulence of the top floor. The grandeur of the huge building had begun to get through to her, and the fact that she was working for a multimillionaire who could buy and sell half of
London if he so chose was more than a little awe-inspiring.
It wasn't that she didn't think she could handle the job, she thought feverishly as she opened the drawers of her desk to familiarise herself with the contents, it was just. Just what? she asked herself irritably. What on earth was the matter with her? Since Matthew's untimely death from undiagnosed genetic heart disease just a few weeks after Hannah was born, she had kept both herself and her tiny daughter, as well as running a home and coming to terms with the emotional package of grief and anger her loss had entailed. So why was she letting an ice-cold individual like Mr. Strade get to her? It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous! She nodded mentally and took a few deep, calming breaths as she forced her heartbeat to behave. She was mature and sensible and perfectly in control of her emotions and her life, not some giddy schoolgirl with no responsibilities and no brain.