by Penny Jordan
‘When I hired you it was in the belief that you had both the experience and the confidence to take full responsibility for all the domestic details of running this place. If you really need to have every small decision you make backed up by me then you’re the wrong person for the job…’
Mortified, and furious with herself for giving him the opportunity to criticise her, Courage compressed her mouth. ‘Chris seemed to think you would prefer to have a male chef rather than a female cook. A chef is, of course, more of a status symbol…’
‘And I am the kind of man who needs to surround himself with status symbols… Is that what you’re trying to imply?’
The cool voice had a distinctly hostile edge to it now, and Courage shivered nervously inside her skin.
‘I…I wasn’t trying to imply anything,’ she back-pedalled, refusing to let him completely overwhelm her as she added more firmly, ‘It’s a fact of life that we live in a world where outward appearances can be important and in which we are often judged on the image we present to the world. Your business obviously involves creating the right kind of impression to win clients and contracts…’
The dark eyebrows snapped together frowningly.
‘I hardly think that if my knowledge and ability in my field was faulty employing a chef as opposed to a cook would do much to mend matters.’
‘No,’ Courage agreed, ‘but, as they say, success breeds success, and the creation of an outer image that says you are successful is bound to have a psychologically reassuring effect on prospective clients.’
‘Oh, indeed, self-confidence and self-assurance are reassuring—just as long as they’re backed up by something a good deal more substantial, like ability… for instance,’ he told her smoothly. ‘I certainly found your references and your past experience extremely reassuring as a prospective employer. However, right now I’m beginning to wonder just how reliable they actually are.
‘So far, you’ve been in my employ less than a week. My chef has left and I return home to find there’s no one to take his place. What would have happened, for instance, if I’d brought some prospective clients back with me?’
What would have happened? He had a point, Courage acknowledged.
‘If that had been the case I’d have had to prepare their breakfast myself,’ she told him quietly, and then blushed. How could she explain to him when she couldn’t even explain to herself that there was something about the intimacy of preparing breakfast just for him rather than doing so for a group of people that had set in action some deep-rooted female wariness?
She couldn’t. Instead, she said stiffly, ‘I’ll bring your breakfast up just as soon as I can…’
Somehow she just managed to resist the temptation to add the word ‘sir’ to her sentence, sensing that his retaliation, should she do so, would be swift and devastating.
As soon as he had left the kitchen Courage went quickly to check the fridge, her heart sinking as she confirmed what she had already known. She had deliberately refrained from stocking up with any food, preferring to wait until the new cook had arrived so that she would be free to choose her own supplies.
It was not yet eight o’clock in the morning, and the nearest supermarket was in the city—too far away, an all-round trip of at least three-quarters of an hour. And then she remembered seeing a new service station that had recently opened. Keeping her fingers crossed that it was one of those which had its own small shop, she snatched up her bag and hurried out to her car.
Fifteen minutes later she was back, triumphantly unpacking her purchases. Oranges—she already knew the kitchen was supplied with a juicer—natural yoghurt, wholemeal bread and muesli. Quickly she found the juicer and cut the oranges before going to make some fresh coffee.
Refusing to allow herself to be panicked, she worked swiftly and efficiently, trying to imagine she was back in Switzerland in her first job, obediently watching the chefs working in the kitchen. Ten minutes later she had prepared the breakfast tray.
Unclipping her hair, which she had fastened back while she worked with the food, she smoothed it down with her hands and then, taking a deep breath, picked up the tray, walking determinedly towards the stairs. She had only been inside Gideon’s suite of rooms once before, on her original exploration of the house; it comprised a large, surprisingly comfortably furnished sitting-room-cum-study, an even larger bedroom, a dressing-room and a bathroom.
In addition to buying the food at the service station, Courage had also purchased several newspapers, plus a copy of the Economist when she had noticed that the current issue was running an article on the increasing problem of over-cultivation of once semi-fertile farmlands in desert areas. No doubt it wouldn’t contain anything that Gideon didn’t already know, but even so…
In fact, she would be rather interested to read the article herself. Although she was semi-loath to admit it, Gideon’s work had captured her imagination, and she was keen to learn more about it.
To her relief, the sitting-room was empty when she went in. She was just about to put the tray down on the desk when she heard Gideon call out to her from the bedroom.
‘Bring it here will you, please, Courage?’
Hesitantly she turned towards the half-open bedroom door, her footsteps slowing slightly, reflecting her reluctance to walk into the bedroom. Reminding herself that she had on countless numbers of occasions had to walk into hotel bedrooms occupied by men, and had had to deal with male guests in various stages of undress, she took a deep, calming breath and stepped through the communicating doorway. The realisation that Gideon wasn’t actually in the bedroom made her frown and check it a second time.
‘Thanks. Just leave it over there by the window, will you?’
The sound of Gideon’s voice coming from behind her made her whirl round just in time to see him emerging from the bathroom.
The dark silk shorts had been replaced by a soft white towel draped round his hips. His body and hair were both still damp from his shower and as he came towards her Courage could smell the clean, sharp scent of his soap.
Instinctively she took a step backwards, her hands tightening defensively around the tray as she tried to avoid looking at the small beads of water running down over his skin. Her unwanted awareness of him made her slow and clumsy, and she gasped out loud as Gideon reached out, halting her backward progress by placing one hand on the tray she was holding. The other he raised to push the damp hair back off his forehead.
Shockingly Courage felt her own skin start to bead uncomfortably with moist heat, a swift, sharp sensation she was too horrified to name zigzagging through her body as she watched almost mesmerised as the muscles in his raised arm flexed and she saw the dark silky dampness of his underarm hair.
Why was it that the sight of body hair on this man should be so urgently and erotically arousing for her, when normally…? She was beginning to feel slightly faint and dizzy, her heart racing furiously.
‘Where did you get this?’ she heard Gideon asking her frowningly, as he removed the copy of the Economist from the tray.
‘I…I bought it at the garage. I had to go there for… for some food…’ Courage explained huskily. ‘I…I thought you might find the article interesting.’
She flushed as brilliantly as a teenager as she felt him looking at her. What was the matter with her? She’d made herself sound as though his approval was important to her… as though… as though…
‘Mm… Yes… I expect they’ll send me a complimentary copy. It’s several months since I wrote the article for them, now…but of course nothing has really changed—except perhaps for the worse.’
It took several seconds for the meaning of his words to sink in fully, but once they had Courage felt herself flushing even more deeply than she had done before. He had written the article. Why on earth hadn’t she looked a bit closer at the magazine? Now he was either going to think she was slapdash in not having realised that he was the author of the article or sycophantic in having noticed an
d then having bought the magazine as a way of flattering him and getting into his good books.
Of the two alternatives, she would infinitely prefer him to choose the former, Courage acknowledged grimly. And, since honesty was an ethic she firmly believed in practising, she took a deep breath and, hoping that the tell-tale colour flushing her skin wouldn’t betray her any further, owned up quickly, like someone swallowing a nasty dose of medicine.
‘I’m sorry. I bought the magazine on impulse, without realising that you had written the article.’
Inwardly she was cursing herself. Of course she should have realised that at the very least he would have been consulted over such a subject, since he was an acknowledged worldwide expert in the field.
What was it about this man that constantly put her on the defensive? Made her feel so wary…so almost insecure about herself and her skills? Made her feel as though he were in some way setting traps for her, testing her, wanting her to fail? She frowned to herself. Now she was being silly. He had, after all, chosen her to work for him.
She was still uncomfortably conscious of his near-nude state, and had deliberately kept her glance fixed very firmly away from his body. The tension her awareness of him was creating inside her made her long to escape, but a certain streak of stubborn pride refused to allow her to give in to such a vulnerable feminine desire.
Instead she gritted her teeth and reminded him, ‘Before you left you mentioned a dinner party that you intended to hold.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, his frown deepening, his voice suddenly unexpectedly terse—so terse, in fact, that Courage was betrayed into looking at him.
Fortunately he had turned his head aside slightly, but she could still see the strong, decisive groove that ran alongside his mouth and the compressed hardness of his jaw.
‘I had intended to invite several of my neighbours to dine tomorrow, but it seems that the majority of them are unable to, so Chris informs me.’
Now it was Courage’s turn to frown. She was no fool. In the course of her working life she had come across people from very many different walks of life and she was well aware of the sense of ill-usage and inferiority that many people who had made their own way in the world felt towards those who, in their worldly terms, were considered ‘better born’, for want of a different expression.
At the hands of her hotel guests Courage had herself experienced the most appallingly rude behaviour and the most heart-warmingly friendly and polite—across a very broad spectrum of social classes. She had met self-made millionaires whose manners and attitudes had made her heart lift in warmth, and high-born aristocrats whose attitudes had filled her with the utmost pity and contempt—and the reverse was equally true.
That being the case, she found it hard to understand why an apparently large proportion of Gideon’s neighbours should refuse his invitation. Unless there was some specific way in which he had offended them.
One or two refusals could be expected, and would probably be quite genuine, but more than that… The days were surely gone when a man was excluded from ‘society’ because he was not considered to be of the ‘right’ class and background?
‘It is summer,’ she responded carefully. ‘I expect that people will be going away…’
‘Very tactful,’ Gideon complimented her acidly. ‘But a bit pointless in the circumstances, don’t you think? According to Chris Where is he, by the way?’ he asked her. ‘I expected him to be here.’
‘He hasn’t returned from London yet,’ Courage told him. She was still curious about why so many of Gideon’s neighbours should have refused his dinner invitation, but she knew she would not gain any more out of Gideon himself and suspected that he was already regretting what he had said to her.
There were other sources of information, though. Not that her interest was motivated by any kind of prurient curiosity, she assured herself quickly. It was just that if there was any specific reason for his neighbours’ refusal to have anything to do with Gideon she ought to know about it—for her own protection, if nothing else.
‘Perhaps if you were to suggest an alternative date for your dinner party?’ she suggested.
Gideon gave her a withering look before pushing his hand through still damp hair, an action which caused his towel to move fractionally lower on his hips and Courage’s stomach to do spectacularly blood pressure-raising cartwheels. Quickly she looked away from him, uncomfortably aware of the fine film of sweat dampening the sensitive flesh just above her upper lip and the valley between her breasts.
Like an animal seeking cover… camouflage… she started to head for the bedroom door.
‘Where are you going?’
Her spine stiffened rebelliously at the imperious tone of Gideon’s voice, but cravenly she found herself stopping and half turning round to face him in response to its command.
‘I… I… You…’
She watched warily as he picked up the glass of fruit juice and tasted it.
‘Fresh fruit…good,’ he told her. ‘What time did you say you were seeing Alfonso’s replacement?’
‘She’s arriving about ten,’ Courage responded. ‘She’s quite happy to live in and she’s worked in catering for almost twenty years—both small and large businesses. Her qualifications are excellent and I felt she had the right type of personality for this kind of work—she’s very calm and used to working to a tight schedule when necessary. However, if you feel…’
‘No, I trust your judgement—professionally.’
Courage frowned. Was it her imagination or had there been a slight emphasis on the word ‘professionally’? And if so, why?
‘After all, that’s what I’m paying you for—and very well,’ Gideon added coolly. ‘However, before you go, there is something…’
For no reason that she could explain, Courage felt her stomach starting to sink. Uneasily she watched as Gideon crossed the room and disappeared into his dressing-room. What was he doing? she wondered edgily… Making her wait while he got dressed? She only wished he would put some clothes on. The sight of his near-naked body had disturbed her in more ways than she wanted to admit… It hadn’t just been mere feminine embarrassment that had brought the hot blood rushing up under her skin, although she hoped that only she was aware of that.
She stiffened as she realised that Gideon was coming back. Her body tensed as she saw that he was still only wearing a towel—a dry one by the looks of it—that was hitched slightly higher and rather more firmly around his hips than the original had been. He was, she observed, carrying a small box. Her tension increased as he beckoned her towards him. Reluctantly she crossed the small expanse of carpet which separated them.
‘Take it,’ Gideon ordered her when she was standing close enough for him to hold out the small box to her.
‘What… what is it?’ she asked him nervously. Her heart was pounding far too fast and she was conscious of that unfamiliar and dangerous heat invading her body again.
‘Open it and see,’ Gideon told her.
Gingerly Courage did as he instructed, surprise replacing her wariness as she opened the box and saw nestling inside it a heartbreakingly delicate fine gold chain.
‘It’s to replace the one that broke,’ Gideon told her briefly.
Courage was still staring at the contents of the box. Even without lifting it from its nest of protective tissue, Courage knew that the chain was of far better quality and far more expensive than her own. The gold alone was obviously far purer, and the workmanship of the fine coils of gold so intricate that she was loath even to touch it. She doubted that her own chain would have cost one tenth as much as this one. Blankly she raised her eyes to meet Gideon’s hard, impatient stare.
‘I can’t accept this,’ she told him.
For a moment he looked almost nonplussed, as though she had somehow shocked him.
‘It’s far too expensive… far too valuable,’ she told him, taking advantage of his silence. ‘I…’
‘You, what…?’ Gideon
asked her softly, back in control once again. ‘You only accept that kind of gift
from a lover? You have the kind of skin that suits gold,’ he added, shocking her into silence. ‘Gold and pearls. There’s something very erotic about dressing a naked woman with jewels. No wonder the Arabian potentates used to command that their concubines wore nothing else.’
‘That’s disgusting,’ Courage told him furiously. ‘It’s… it’s both sexist and demeaning. Why don’t you go the whole way and say that women should be tied up in chains, imprisoned in them, turned into helpless captives… sex-slaves?’
Courage knew she was overreacting, but something in his words had reactivated a long-buried memory of her stepfather giving her a birthday gift—a small, delicate gold bracelet. Laney had been there when he gave it to her, a watchful, taunting expression in her eyes. Very reluctantly Courage had accepted the gift, immediately going to place it on her wrist, until Laney had laughed mockingly at her.
‘Not there, stupid, it goes round your ankle… like mine.’ As she spoke she had displayed a small tanned ankle, waving it around so that the gold chain adorning it glinted.
Without understanding why, Courage had immediately felt uneasy and apprehensive. She had stepped back from her stepfather as he reached out to place the anklet on, shaking her head in rejection. He had been furious with her, of course, and her mother had been upset. Courage had been sent to her room without any supper and the incident pushed to the back of her mind—a mind too young and immature to have been able to deal with a situation it had found both frightening and humiliating with its undertones of sexuality and bondage.
Now that long-buried memory had resurfaced, bringing with it all the emotions she had not been able to express. Automatically, as she spoke, she stepped back from Gideon, her whole body quivering with anger and outrage, the shadow of those old memories darkening her eyes so that she looked both magnificently furious and femininely vulnerable.
At the same time the anger she was expressing as she stepped back from him was totally adult, an all woman fury at what he had said, while the look in her eyes and the betrayingly expressive cowering rejection of her body were the body language of a frightened child.