by Valerie Parv
While the coffee brewed she set a tray with bone china cup and saucer, linen napkin and shortbread biscuits from a well-stocked cupboard.
The single cup on the tray brought a questioning look. ‘Don’t you want some yourself?’
‘I thought you didn’t care to be disturbed.’
The flint-hard eyes flashed fire. ‘This is your first day. I don’t want you thinking you’ve come to work for a slave-driver.’
Guilt washed her features with warmth. Her father always said he could read her face like a book. Ryan was plainly doing so now. ‘Have I?’ she asked, to distract him.
A smile which wasn’t quite a smile lit his sharply defined features, making her limbs weaken unexpectedly. If a smile wreaked so much havoc, what would a kiss do?
Now where had that thought come from? Angrily she thrust it away, but not before her heart-rate had jumped at the very idea.
His eyebrow lifted again. ‘What do you think? Have you come to work for a slave-driver?’
Since she hadn’t come to work for him at all, she could answer truthfully. ‘Not a chance.’
He pushed his cup aside and drew a sheaf of papers towards him. ‘Sue chose you well. She knows her replacement won’t last long without some spirit.’ He looked up briefly, but with soul-searching intensity. ‘You’ll do.’
Will I, now? she thought furiously as she retreated to the secretary’s office, quietly closing the door although she longed to slam it so hard that it rattled on its hinges. Literally shaking with anger, she needed a few minutes to calm down before making any sense of the files.
The red ‘Confidential’ flags on the front blurred as she tried to sort out her feelings. What was she so angry about? Then she knew. It killed her to respond to Ryan Westmore when Clair had amply forewarned her against him. Sharing even a moment of camaraderie with him was like making a pact with the devil himself.
But who expected the devil to be so attractive? Her chin settled on one hand. He would have to be in order to hijack people’s souls the way he had hijacked Clair’s.
The memory strengthened her resolve, and she opened the first folder, searching for information to use as a weapon against him.
It wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped. Every meeting, every transaction to do with the bid for the world trade assembly was catalogued in minute detail. If there were any slush funds, shady cash deals or underhand dealings they weren’t even hinted at here.
The last file closed with a disheartening thump. The kind of thing she needed was unlikely to be openly recorded. It would be stored on his private computer, protected by an impenetrable password.
The secretary’s computer was probably linked to his, but without the proper skills she hesitated to turn the thing on. Ryan thought she’d already done so, accessing the instruction to study these particular files. She had gathered that from his reaction to finding her in the file-room. Luckily he hadn’t glanced at the screen on the way in and found it incriminatingly blank.
A sense of futility gripped her. Coming here had seemed like a good idea, when Clair’s death had fired her with the zeal to make Ryan pay. At the very least Terise wanted people to see that there was another side to their corporate knight in shining armour.
Maybe she should have followed her first impulse, to turn Clair’s letters over to the Press and let them investigate. Newspapers thrived on scandal. But without proof all she had were Clair’s slightly hysterical accusations.
The folders slid from her fingers as despair washed over her. This had been an insane idea from the beginning. She was about to leave while she still could when an intercom buzzed on the desk and Ryan’s voice filtered into the room. ‘Miss Ferris, come in here, please.’
Now what? She shrugged on her Miss Ferris persona and headed for his office, stopping to collect a stenographer’s pad and pen from the desk. It looked good, and occupied her trembling hands, although she couldn’t do shorthand to save her life.
Ryan’s face was a granite mask. He indicated a straight-backed chair in front of his desk. ‘Sit down.’
Terise thought it prudent to comply. The notepad trembled in her grasp like an autumn leaf about to fall. He watched her for a moment in silence, every second of which was agonising as she waited for the axe to fall. The so-kissable mouth was set in an implacable line which sent tremors of apprehension surging through her. How could she have seen any humanity in such a hard visage?
‘I assume you know why you’re here.’ It wasn’t exactly a question. His tone was a sufficient harbinger of doom.
She kept her chin lifted, refusing to let him see how intimidated she felt. ‘I can guess.’
He rose, palms flattening against the desk as he towered over her. ‘You’d be right. Debbie just got a call from Joanne Ferris, who is caught in a traffic accident on the F4 freeway.’ His voice dropped to a soft level which was, if anything, more daunting. ‘Now, suppose you explain who you really are and what you’re playing at?’
As cover stories went it was woefully inadequate, but it was all she had. ‘My real name is Terise O’Neill.’ Clair’s surname had been Everson, and fortunately she hadn’t changed it. ‘I’m from the country and came to Sydney looking for work. After reading about your press conference in last night’s paper, I meant to approach you about a job.’
His expression didn’t soften. ‘As a secretary?’
She kept quiet, knowing that her real qualifications would give the lie to her story in an instant.
Again he was ahead of her. Before she could react, he moved around the desk and grasped her arms in a vice-like grip. She would probably have bruises there tomorrow.
Her stumbling progress barely kept pace with him as he towed her to the outer office, thrusting her into a chair in front of the computer. She stared at it as he loomed over her, arms crossed. ‘Well?’
Her fumbling fingers finally found the on-switch and the screen glimmered into life. So far, so good. ‘What shall I type?’ she brazened.
‘ “The quick brown fox” will do fine.’
Her index fingers stabbed at the keyboard, producing a mess of gibberish which fooled neither of them. She let her hands drop.
‘So you aren’t a secretary. Surprise, surprise.’ The velvet tones were mild, but she sensed the anger he held in check by force of will. ‘What precisely are you?’
She gulped, and finally offered him the truth. ‘In big trouble.’
A storm gathered behind his eyes but she kept hers level with his by pretending to be Miss Ferris again. She wouldn’t have been afraid of anyone—not even the devil disguised as Ryan Westmore.
A grudging respect crept over his features, but there was no lenience in his voice. ‘I’ll say this for you, Terise O’Neill, you have a lot of nerve. Who sent you? One of the other bid committees?’
‘Good lord, no.’
‘Then who?’
‘No one. I told you, I’m looking for a job.’
‘And I’m Arnold Schwarzenegger.’
He was big enough and awesome enough. Fragments of Clair’s letters spun through her mind. If Terise had had any sense she would have been terrified of him. She would have been if she hadn’t been so intent on her mission.
Whatever else he might have said was forestalled when two small, blonde-haired missiles exploded into the office. flinging themselves at Ryan and each taking possession of a Zegna-clad leg. ‘Daddy!’
Something totally unexpected tore at Terise’s heart. There was no mistaking their identity. They were Clair’s children. Their angelic, fair-haired looks were so much an echo of hers that tears burned the backs of her eyes. She blinked them away before Ryan noticed.
The children were followed more sedately by a stout, middle-aged man who looked totally frazzled. ‘Sorry about the intrusion, sir. I was taking them upstairs, but they made such a fuss about seeing you first that it seemed safer to accommodate them.’
Ryan’s expression had acquired an astonishing forbearance. ‘It’s all right,
Marcus. As a nanny, you’re a first-rate chauffeur, and these two minxes are well aware of it.’
The chauffeur must have brought the children from school. He watched in pained impotence as they proceeded to wreak havoc in the small office.
Spying the active computer, one of them reached for the keys, and Ryan made no move to intervene. Reflex and training came to Terise’s aid, and her voice automatically dropped into playground-register—what her colleagues called her ‘sergeant-major’s voice’. ‘Stop that at once, missy.’
The child’s jaw dropped open and she stared at Terise, but her hand also pulled back from the keyboard. ‘My name isn’t missy. It’s Trudy and I’m six,’ she announced, a wary note threading her voice.
‘Hello, Trudy, I’m Terise. Bet you’re too little to draw a picture for me.’
Her eyes flashed acceptance of the challenge. ‘I can so, too. I draw good pictures.’
‘Prove it.’ Terise handed her some typing paper and a black felt-tipped marker. The child dropped to the carpet and began to draw, pink tongue protruding slightly with concentration.
Not unexpectedly, her twin stopped dipping her hair experimentally into a glass of water and sidled up. ‘I’m Lisa. I can draw good, too.’
‘Only if you’re going to behave. Are you?’
Her butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-the-mouth look didn’t fool Terise, but she accepted the child’s nod. ‘Here you are, then. Both of you draw me something you saw on the drive home. I have a chocolate in my bag for each picture.’
Six-year-olds were her speciality, and she’d acted on pure instinct. Energy not properly channelled had to come out somewhere—usually in destructive ways. But distracted they were perfect angels.
Slowly she became aware of Ryan’s appraisal. Marcus, the chauffeur, looked at the busy children with open-mouthed amazement. ‘Well, I’ll be. Where did you get this miracle-worker, Mr Westmore?’
‘I’m not a miracle-worker, I’m a teacher. And he hasn’t “got” me,’ she started to add, until she caught a gleam of purpose in Ryan’s dark gaze. All too obviously he had something in mind, and his look said that she wasn’t going to like it one bit.
‘Miss O’Neill is looking for a job,’ he said, with a coldness which sent shivers down her spine. ‘We’ll soon see if she’s telling the truth. Do you want a job?’
‘Of course.’ A trap loomed ahead, but she could see no way to avoid it.
‘Excellent.’ She fancied she heard the sound of metal jaws springing closed. ‘Because you’ve got one. Taking care of these two for me.’
CHAPTER TWO
THE interval between his outrageous proposal and her response was measured in seconds, but it felt like hours. Guiltily she realised that her problem was not only with taking care of Clair’s children, it was also with getting involved with their demanding and possibly dangerous father.
His attractiveness had already acted as a warning beacon. Sailor beware! If she hadn’t already been warned about him, every instinct she possessed would have done it for her.
Observing him from a safe distance was one thing. Dealing with him at close quarters was quite another. And yet ... and yet there was that invisible thread of family feeling which had begun winding itself around her heart, connecting her with the two cherubs at her feet, their heads down, small bottoms upraised as they worked on their drawings.
Striving to remain objective, she tore her gaze away from them, unfortunately clashing with the diamond-bright challenge in Ryan’s eyes. Warmth surged up her neck, although she willed herself not to blush under his searching scrutiny.
A strange excitement kindled like a brushfire deep inside Terise, answering something in his look. He knew, damn him. Somehow he knew that she would refuse the job and confirm his all too obvious suspicions. It was crazy but she felt reluctant to let him down. Given what she knew about him, it didn’t make sense.
‘I can’t,’ she forced herself to say.
‘Then your teaching qualifications are spurious too?’
This couldn’t be left unchallenged. ‘No, they’re genuine. I have a diploma in early childhood education from Newcastle College, four years of in-service teaching with infants, and I was a recreationist for a children’s hospital.’
‘Impressive,’ he said, sounding anything but impressed. ‘If it’s all true.’
The man was infuriating. Having caught her out in one lie he was determined to suspect everything about her. Her blood steamed. ‘You can check my references yourself.’
He folded his arms across his broad chest. ‘Depend on it.’
His cold assertion jolted her back to reality. Why defend herself so vigorously if she had no intentions of working for him? The jaws of the trap tightened until breathing was an effort. ‘It hardly matters unless you employ me,’ she stammered, around the huge lump in her throat.
Alerted by the charged atmosphere between the adults, the children were looking up with such luminous cornflower-blue eyes that she felt like a criminal.
‘You require a job. I require a nanny. If your qualifications are genuine there should be no problem,’ he observed with infuriating logic.
And there wouldn’t be if anyone else had offered. But this was Clair’s husband, her children.
It would provide the perfect opportunity to establish exactly what had happened, a small voice in Terise’s head insisted.
It still felt wrong—even as a purely business arrangement. She tried to tell herself that it would last only until she had her answers, and then she would be free.
Liar, the same small voice mocked. You don’t want to be free of him. He intrigues, fascinates, beguiles you in a way no man has done before.
Foolish woman. She was falling into the same trap which had probably caught Clair, the difference being that Terise’s eyes were wide open—and still she felt herself falling.
‘You’re right. I accept the job,’ came a whispered acquiescence. It felt as if a stranger had spoken in her place.
He nodded, as if the question had never been in doubt. ‘Agreed. Provided your background checks out.’
His persistent scepticism stung in a way she resisted examining too closely. ‘It wilt.’
His steel-grey eyes became hooded, and he steepled long fingers in front of his chest. ‘This time I think it will,’ he commented drily. ‘Where are you staying?’
His question caught her by surprise. ‘With my stepmother in Queenscliff.’
Elaine had moved back to the city after Tense’s father had died, two years before. She had hoped to be reunited with Clair, but it hadn’t happened. For some reason Clair had chosen to contact Terise instead. The burden of her letters weighed heavily. Why hadn’t she written to Elaine? How different this scene would have been then.
Ryan’s decisive tone invaded her thoughts. ‘Marcus will drive you to Queenscliff to collect your things and bring you back here.’
Panic threatened to overwhelm her. Moving into his home, even with the girls as a buffer, was an enormous step. Far too much, too soon. ‘I didn’t plan to live in,’ she said, annoyed at the betraying tremor in her voice. Where was the cool professional now? ‘I’d rather stay where I am. I can still work whatever hours you require.’
His bladed hand slashed the air dismissively. ‘My working hours are unpredictable. International contacts frequently have to be made in the middle of the night, our time, and I’ll be travelling a lot, so this has to be a live-in position.’
Belatedly Terise recalled that she wasn’t supposed to know anything about his personal life. ‘But surely your wife...’ The word lodged in her throat, cutting off further speech.
‘My wife died in a car accident six months ago,’ he stated. Astonishingly there was an edge of pain underlying the bald statement.
Sharing the pain, but unable to let it show, she asked, ‘Are there no other relatives to help look after the children?’
‘My wife was an orphan, and what relatives I possess are scattered overseas, s
o we’re spectacularly short of family.’
So this was how Clair had explained her family’s absence from her wedding and her life. It felt devastating to be denied so totally, however Clair had rationalised it. It didn’t lessen Terise’s sense of betrayal.
At her feet, the children stirred, once more engrossed in their drawing. Her heart turned over. Not that she needed any reminding, but Ryan had evoked the strongest reason for her to swallow her reluctance and take the job. These children—her family—had lost their mother. They needed Terise.
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can,’ she said shakily, trying not to think too much about what the decision entailed.
At the reception desk, Debbie reddened when she saw Terise, with Marcus close behind her. ‘I’m sorry for mixing you up with Miss Ferris. You kind of looked as if you belonged here.’
Ashamed, because it was the impression she’d tried to create, she offered her own apology. ‘As it turns out, I am working for Mr Westmore—as the children’s nanny,’ she added.
Debbie’s beaming smile made Terise feel worse. ‘That’s fantastic. It was a lucky mistake after all.’
Depending on how you looked at it. ‘Probably,’ she agreed. It was kind of Debbie to be so welcoming. At least Terise had one ally in Ryan’s camp.
Marcus promised to be another, although he’d probably have befriended anyone who took the children off his hands. His martyrdom at being coopted into the nanny role was evident as he expertly steered Ryan’s silver-grey limousine through the thick traffic towards Queenscliff.
‘Never thought I’d be ferrying six-year-olds around,’ he grumbled. ‘You’re here in the nick of time. Another week and I’d have been off.’
‘How long have you worked for Mr Westmore?’ she asked innocently.
‘Eleven years.’ He looked shamefaced. ‘You got me. I wouldn’t have resigned—but I wanted to, plenty of times. Those two are right little handfuls.’
Needing to learn as much about her charges as possible, she queried, ‘Is that since their mother died?’