A Business Engagement

by Jessica Steele

  ‘It’s fine,’ Ashlyn smiled. It was more than fine; by her reckoning, she was only going to be here for a month or so—less if she blotted her copy book and Carter found a way of getting her off the board. But this was an office which any executive would be delighted to have. ‘Er—how’s Mr Hamilton’s PA—do you know?’ she enquired, following up thoughts that having her under his nose might be Carter’s way of finding some weakness he could use—and that perhaps Lorna wasn’t so badly injured, maybe even not injured at all.

  ‘It looks as if Lorna might be in hospital a little longer than we at first thought,’ Una stated. ‘Mr Hamilton went to see her last night and learned the doctors may have to reset her leg.’

  It sounded ghastly! And, having dubbed Carter as being unsympathetic to his PA, Ashlyn revised her opinion. It had been kind of him to go to the hospital to see her—though, on second thoughts, he’d probably used his visit to clear up any business he needed to know about.

  Una left her to go back to her own domain and Ashlyn spent five minutes testing her chair, opening drawers and checking the view from her window. The sound of her door opening caused her to spin round. Briefcase in hand, Carter Hamilton entered.

  Ridiculously, her heart fluttered. ‘Just coming in?’ she asked, having realised from Una’s remarks that he must have arrived some while ago, but, oddly, feeling the need to pass some sort of off-the-cuff remark.

  ‘Just going out,’ he answered casually. ‘Got everything you need?’

  ‘Telephone, notepad, pencil,’ she documented the tools of her trade, all there on her desk.

  ‘You’re staying till five?’

  He hadn’t mentioned office hours—but she was still wary of being trapped. ‘Of course,’ she answered.

  ‘Good!’ His glance roved over her dainty features, then rested on her wide green eyes. ‘I’ll look in when I get back.’

  Ashlyn subsided into her chair once Carter had gone. He was, she owned, quite something! And as he had to pass her office every time he wanted to use the lift or the stairs she supposed she must get used to him popping in. It was only natural that he would want to find out if there were any messages for him. After all, message-taker-in-chief was her role.

  Her office was conveniently situated for anyone else to drop in too if they felt like it, she found, when less than an hour later Geoff Rogers stopped by.

  ‘Just heard on the bush telegraph that you’re delighting us with your presence,’ he beamed with a charm born of long practice.

  She was pleased to see him. ‘Carter thought I might be useful,’ she smiled.

  ‘What’s your job title exactly?’ He settled himself in a spare chair near her desk.

  ‘I don’t know that I’ve got one,‘ she laughed. ‘It’s just that as Lorna Stokes is in hospital I might be useful in taking calls from anyone who particularly wants Carter.’

  ‘What a brilliant idea. I say, my PA’s gone down with this flu thing—you wouldn’t care to take mine too, would you? I’m off out myself in half an hour.’

  ‘I’d be pleased to,’ she answered truthfully.

  ‘Lovely girl—have lunch with me tomorrow?’

  ‘You never miss an opportunity,’ she laughed. ‘No.’

  ‘Can’t hang a man for trying.’

  Ashlyn felt cheered after he’d gone, but had still not taken any calls when, at eleven, someone brought her a cup of coffee. A short while after that Ivy, whom she remembered warmly, tapped on her door and came in wheeling a trolley.

  ‘I’ve had a message from Mr Rogers,’ she stated cheerfully. ‘He tells me you’ve joined us as Director of Senior Communications and, as such, will need coffee-and tea-making facilities.’ While Ashlyn didn’t know whether to gasp or laugh at Geoff’s inventive ‘Director of Senior Communications’, Ivy was busily unloading from her trolley a hot plate, china, and the refreshments which Geoff had decided she needed.

  Ivy chatted on, saying she would get a small table sent up, then just as cheerfully, went on her way. Ashlyn worked out that she could well find herself entertaining Geoff to tea or coffee whenever he passed by.

  It was a little before twelve when Ashlyn took her first call—from Italy. Signor Vezio Morini wanted to speak with Carter.

  ‘Buongiorno, Signor Morini,’ she greeted him. Someone in Carter’s office had already explained to him that Carter was unavailable but that he was being put through to another board member. ‘Posso aiutaria?’ She asked if could help him.

  ‘You speak my language!’ he exclaimed, sounded youngish and excited, and there followed a full five minutes of Italian conversation. Signor Morini left a message which meant little to Ashlyn, but she recorded it and put it to one side. The Italian then got down to other interests. ‘Would you like to fax me a picture of yourself?’ he requested.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t have one,’ she laughed.

  ‘But you are under thirty, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, realising she was being flirted with. But she had no wish to be churlish—that was not part of her brief.

  Eventually Signor Morini said goodbye and Ashlyn smiled. She had liked him. Looking down at the message she had taken, she felt useful, and liked that too.

  She took another couple of messages after that, both for Geoff Rogers, and went out to lunch feeling in no way taxed but somehow enjoying the feeling of being more involved with Hamilton Holdings.

  The first hour after lunch seemed to drag by, then she heard the lift stop, heard footsteps that halted by her door. She looked up to see that Carter Hamilton was back.

  ‘Ah, a message for you,’ she smiled, and glanced down to pick up the note which she had translated from Italian. She looked up to find that Carter was gazing at her hair with almost a hint of admiration. Her heart gave an idiotic kind of flip.

  ‘Do you always wear your hair that way?’ he asked, the question seeming to come from him involuntarily.

  ‘Only when there’s an R in the month,’ she replied smartly, and could have sworn she saw his lips twitch.

  She was mistaken, she realised a moment later. For there was not a scrap of good humour about him when he glanced over to the table and its accompaniments, which hadn’t been there the last time he’d been in this office. ‘I see you’ve made yourself at home,’ he drawled, and she could have hit him—and Geoff Rogers for his hand in making it look as if she was setting up a canteen.

  ‘I’d offer you a cup, but I know you’re busy,’ she forced out a smile.

  He grunted something—she was sure it was something uncomplimentary—and, taking her hint along with his message, he strode off.

  Ashlyn felt strangely as if she’d just been pulled through a wringer. Never had she met a man who could so upset her equilibrium—and so easily at that.

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ Geoff Rogers asked when he steamed in at just after four o‘clock. And, perhaps reading her expression which said ‘No chance’, he added, ‘I’ve been stuck in traffic for the best part of an hour.’ Ashlyn relented. Why shouldn’t she give him a cup of tea? She hoped Carter Hamilton came by and caught them. See what you get for being pleasant!

  On Friday of that week, Ashlyn added another board member to her list of people for whom she took messages and did a bit of PR. Henry Whitmore’s PA rang her. ‘I’ve a Mr Yates on the line. He’s angry that Mr Whitmore hasn’t returned his call and now Mr Whitmore isn’t in—can you help?’

  A dozen questions flew into Ashlyn’s head. Was he just cross about not having his call returned, or did he have some bigger gripe? ‘When will Mr Whitmore be in?’ she asked.

  ‘Not until after lunch.’

  Having received that information, Ashlyn could not see the sense in asking what the caller’s business might be, since any technical jargon was going to fox her completely. In her view the angry Mr Yates was not going to be made much sweeter by being kept waiting any longer.

  ‘Would you like to put him through?’ she requested, fully sympathising with M
r Yates because it didn’t sound as though Henry Whitmore was treating him very well. ‘Good morning, Mr Yates,’ she greeted in warm tones. ‘I’m sorry you’re having trouble contacting Henry. I wonder if I can help in any way?’

  ‘You’re on the board of Hamilton Holdings, Whitmore’s secretary tells me.’ Oh, my word—he did sound angry.

  ‘That’s right, and liking it tremendously,’ she answered enthusiastically, only then realising that, for all she had been by no means stretched since Tuesday, she had enjoyed coming to Hamilton Holdings. ‘I still have a great deal to learn, of course.’

  ‘You know nothing at all about my company, do you?’ Mr Yates questioned. Ashlyn realised then that she had two choices: admit it and put down the phone, or...

  Suddenly she remembered the day she had lunched with Carter and Osmund Kogstad, when hardly a word about business had been uttered, and in she plunged. ‘I’m hoping to rectify that as soon as possible. I wonder, Mr Yates—are you free for lunch today?’

  He hadn’t been expecting that; she could tell from the sudden silence at the other end of the phone. ‘You want to take me to lunch?’ he checked, but sounded much less angry than he had been.

  ‘If you’re free,’ she replied warmly, not allowing herself to think.

  ‘Well, that’ll be a first,’ he answered, and she guessed he meant this was the first time he’d had a business lunch invitation from a female of the species—did she have news for him! ‘Where and what time?’ he accepted.

  The only place that came to mind in the flurry of the moment was the restaurant where Carter had entertained Osmund. She gave the name and suggested midday, keeping her fingers crossed that, by taking an early lunch, she might be able to get a table.

  She was on the telephone again to the restaurant shortly after she had said goodbye to Mr Yates, still not allowing herself to think of the enormity of what she was doing. She knew absolutely nothing about business, for goodness’ sake! She did the only thing possible in her efforts to secure a table; it was unthinkable that she ring Mr Yates back and tell him that their venue had been changed to somewhere more lowly. ‘Good morning,’ she greeted, ‘I’m Ashlyn Ainsworth; I’m a director...’ Director of Senior Communications—ye gods! ’...with Hamilton Holdings. I wonder if you’ve a table for two available at lunchtime?’

  ‘Today?’

  Grief, she could hear him saying ‘Not a prayer’ already. ‘Around midday?’ she ploughed on, adding quickly, and hating herself for using Carter’s name, ‘I lunched with you a week ago last Tuesday—I was with my chairman, Carter Hamilton...’

  ‘Oh, Mr Hamilton! Um—around midday, you say?’

  ‘Twelve noon,’ she confirmed—and put down the phone grinning wildly. So who was to know?

  She soon lost her grin; panic set in as Ashlyn realised that while this lunch was not arranged for her to discuss business—and hallelujah for that—if Mr Yates started to get in the slightest technical as he told her about his business he was soon going to discover that she had not the smallest concept of what he was talking about. He would then begin to wonder what on earth she was doing on the Hamilton Holdings board. Oh, dear, she hoped he didn’t know Carter. Or, if he did, that the two never met.

  The fates were working for and against her that day. On the for side, Donald Yates turned out to be a slim, mid-forties, fair-haired male. His anger with Henry Whitmore over, he was tickled to be entertained to lunch, and could not have been more pleasant. As for her worry that the talk about his business might be too technical, as they chatted through lunch he seemed content to give her a brief outline of what his company did.

  ‘I’ve a daughter about your age,’ he revealed over coffee. ‘She’s just finishing at university. Rosie wants to come into the firm. What do you think? Should I let her?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Ashlyn asked, knowing her own father’s views on a daughter entering his business.

  Donald, as he now was to her, gave a huge soppy grin. ‘I’d love it,’ he said. Ashlyn was grinning in empathy, when she looked up straight into the cool, dark, not-very-pleased-to-see-her eyes of Carter Hamilton.

  ‘Ashlyn,’ Carter acknowledged her.

  ‘Carter,’ she replied. Her insides were all of a jangle—as fates went, they couldn’t get more against than that he’d chosen to lunch here—but, never knowing quite how, she kept her outward poise. ‘Donald, do you know my chairm—?’

  ‘Hello, Carter.’ Donald Yates took over and, as relaxed as you please, said, ‘Are you joining us?’

  The fact that Ashlyn and Donald were on their coffee and would shortly leave was not lost on Carter. ‘I’m lunching with someone,’ he replied urbanely, and, switching his glance to Ashlyn, he asked, ‘Are you going straight back to the office?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, sensing she was in his black books for something, but not wanting Donald Yates to know it.

  ‘You might tell my office I’ll be late back.’

  ‘No problem,’ she answered, and irritatingly found herself wondering who he was lunching with that would make him ‘late back’. Some female, no doubt!

  She did not get to find out because Carter moved off to go and greet his guest. Then she had her attention taken up with a mild battle because Donald Yates would not allow her to pay for the meal.

  ‘But I invited you!’ she protested.

  ‘I know. And I wish I could let you pay. But there’s just something in me that can’t allow you to sign the bill with everyone else looking on.’

  ‘How about I do it in private?’

  He shook his head, and charmingly made her giggle when he said, ‘You wait until I tell my wife that I lunched with an absolutely gorgeous redhead—and that she wanted to pay!’

  Back at her office, Ashlyn phoned Carter’s office with the message that he would be late back. ‘We know. He said,’ she was informed, and Ashlyn put down her phone thinking it odd that Carter had forgotten he had already informed his staff. And a few minutes later Carter was still in her head; had he not forgotten at all, but just wanted to know if she was spending the afternoon with Donald—or if she intended going back to her office?

  Nosy devil! she fumed, and felt cross with him, reminding herself yet again that this man wanted rid of her, and was forever on the lookout for a way of doing it. Carter had caught her consorting with the enemy, perhaps? But Hamilton Holdings did business with Donald’s firm, so he couldn’t be called the enemy. Ashlyn gave up that particular line of thinking but resolved to be constantly vigilant where Carter Hamilton was concerned.

  At half past three, Ashlyn blinked, came to, and realised that she had been staring into space ever since she had come back from lunch. She got up, put on the percolator and rang Henry Whitmore’s office, thinking that perhaps she should chat with him about her lunchtime session with his client.

  ‘He’s on his way to see you,’ his PA informed her, and less than a minute later a mature man she remembered from the two board meetings she’d attended came in with a huge bouquet of flowers.

  ‘What did you do to Donald Yates?’ he asked. ‘He was charming when I rang to beg forgiveness for my sins.’

  Ashlyn smiled, and thought Henry Whitmore a very nice man as he presented her with the bouquet. She had a coffee with him, while they discussed the few bits and pieces which she considered relevant for him to know.

  At a little before five, with not one single call having come her way that afternoon, Ashlyn, her flowers in one arm, picked up her bag and left her office. She was standing looking at her flowers as she waited for the lift and thinking pleasantly how nice everyone at Hamilton Holdings was, when it arrived.

  She looked up; the lift doors opened. She moved forward, then took a step back. Some time to come back from lunch! she thought tartly as Carter Hamilton stared from her to the beautiful flowers she carried, then back to her face—and without the smallest acknowledgement walked from the lift and straight by.

  Ashlyn marched into the lift and banged th
e ‘Parking’ button. Correction. How nice everyone at Hamilton Holdings was, bar one!

  ‘What lovely flowers!’ her mother exclaimed when she arrived home. ‘They’re gift-wrapped!’ she observed.

  There was no escaping the question that was bound to come next. ‘One of the directors gave them to me,’ Ashlyn felt forced to reply. And because she didn’t want her mother to think there was any romantic interest there she added, ‘For—a job he thought I’d done—er—all right.’ She could have groaned as soon as the words were out. Before the evening was over, her simple reply was going to be embroidered upon, she knew it. By the time she went to bed, both Uncle Edward and Uncle Richard would know how excellent she was at her job. Now did not seem to be the time to tell her mother that the chairman wasn’t speaking to her—that he’d looked through her rather than acknowledge her. Perhaps his lunch hadn’t been so appetising after all! One could only hope.

  Ashlyn spent some of the weekend with her friends Todd and Susannah, and thought of them with affection on Monday when, alone in her office, she sat waiting for her phone to ring. Tomorrow, she decided, she would bring a book to read.

  On Tuesday, however, the phone on her desk rang several times. Once in connection with Carter—who was out of the country for a week, she’d learned. Twice for Geoff Rogers. Once for Henry Whitmore, and once—word having got around, apparently—for another board member, Mr Joseph Fulford.

  Ashlyn decided to take a look around and find out from which office every resident board member worked. She discovered that Carter preferred to work in isolation and that his team of assistants were housed in an office across the corridor from him.

  To investigate where everyone worked seemed to her, with her knowledge of board members increasing, to be the efficient thing to do. Even if Geoff always seemed to stop by for a chat whenever he came in.

  So why did she feel down today? Was it the fact that she was enjoying her role at Hamilton Holdings, underworked though she might be, and she did not want to leave? She had known from the start that the job was only temporary!