by Mandy Lee
Before Jodie can object any more, I’m out of the office and waiting for the lift. It seems to take an age but when it finally arrives, it’s empty and I give out a huge sigh of relief. Right now, I couldn’t face a single one of those suited types with their meaningful jobs. As soon as the lift reaches the ground floor, I’m off, making my way through the massive revolving doors and breathing in the hot, summer air. It’s close, very close … and I shiver. There’s a storm coming on. Glancing up at the sky, I pray that it won’t happen any time soon, and then I set off down the embankment, half running, half walking, without the slightest idea where I’m going. All I know is that I need to get away from the midday crowds. Dodging the tourists and the workers out on their lunch breaks, I take a right, heading away from the river, searching for an oasis of peace and quiet where I can gather my thoughts. At last I find it, half way down a side alley, a deserted backstreet coffee shop that’s definitely seen better days.
I push open the door and make my way to the counter. The young woman behind the counter stares at me, and then she stares at something behind me. Her eyes seem to double in size.
‘A latte please,’ I demand.
‘Uh?’
‘A latte please. Small.’
‘Two pounds fifty,’ the young woman gasps, still looking beyond me at something else.
‘I’ll get this.’ Out of the corner of my eye, I see an arm, and then a hand reaching out. ‘And I’ll take a cappuccino.’
I turn slowly, already knowing exactly who’s standing behind me. His voice is unmistakable. And I can smell him too, now that I’ve gathered my senses. I turn slowly to find him standing close behind me. He smiles down at me. His blue eyes seem to twinkle.
‘Thank you, Mr Foster,’ I gulp.
‘Dan,’ he mouths back at me, and suddenly I’m a wreck. And worse than that, he seems to have noticed. His smile broadens and he puts a hand to my back. At his touch, a flood tide of chemicals crashes its way through my body, tearing at my foundations, ripping away every last scrap of logic and sense. I’m a shambles, a shivering, quaking muddle of sexual want. He leans forwards slightly and whispers into my ear.
‘Go and get us a seat. I’ll bring the drinks over.’
My heartbeat falters and I feel queasy. No, no, no, no, no. He can’t be coming on to me. He’s a top notch bastard, a heartless, hollow piece of shit, and he may be filthy rich, and he may be the most agonisingly handsome man I’ve ever laid eyes on, but I’m not having this.
‘Okay,’ I breathe.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m in trouble. Why can’t I just say no? Why can’t I just tell him I’m getting a take-out? And why the hell is he telling me to call him Dan? Nobody calls him Dan, not even Norman, and Norman’s clearly allowed to call him Dan. In a fog of confusion, I find myself staggering through a maze of mismatched tables and chairs, desperately trying to muster my thoughts. But it’s not easy. After all, a womanising sex god has just bought me a coffee and touched me on the back. My thoughts are simply in no mood to be mustered at all. Think, brain, think, I will myself, glancing round at the empty coffee shop, trying to pinpoint the best place to sit. Apart from a few tables and chairs, there’s a sofa by the window, and I can’t sit there. If I sit there, we could end up with an uncomfortable body contact situation. No, it has to be a table. I’ve got to keep some distance between me and Mr Mean and Hot and Moody.
‘The couch will do fine.’
His voice hits me from behind and suddenly he’s overtaking me, a mug of coffee in each hand, aiming for the bloody sofa. So, I have no choice in the matter. Daniel Foster is placing the mugs on the coffee table, his lovely pert backside in the air, and now he’s shrugging off his expensive jacket and lowering himself down … gracefully. He waves me over without a trace of an expression on that wonderfully perfect face. He knows what he’s doing. But why is he doing it to me? That’s the question. I try my best to ease myself down with equal grace onto the sofa but it’s far too low. I hear it squeak beneath me and I seem to sink further.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yep.’
‘Only I saw you running through the lobby and I was worried. I followed you here.’
Followed me here? He bloody followed me? But why did he follow me? Questions are zinging about in my head, and they’re finding no answers.
‘I’m fine,’ I half whisper. Is that all you’re going to say, my brain screams. Aren’t you going to ask exactly why he followed you?
‘You don’t look it.’
‘It’s nothing.’
He picks up his coffee, surveys the sprinkling of chocolate and places it back down again. ‘So, how was your first day?’
‘Fine.’ Is that it? Fine? Is that the only word I’m going to be able to utter? Why am I currently in possession of a sorely limited vocabulary?
‘You’ve settled in?’
‘I think so.’
He picks up his mug one more time, takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces.
‘Well, that’s shit,’ he mumbles under his breath, and I’m not sure whether he means the coffee or the fact that I’m claiming to have settled into my new job, whatever that is. I watch as he places the mug on the table. He leans back, snaking his left arm across the back of the sofa, just behind my head, and gazes at me, his eyes still twinkling.
‘Has Norman been keeping you busy?’ he asks.
I want to tell him the truth. I want to tell him that up until now I’ve done precious little. In fact, I want to ask him why Norman even needs a secretary. After all, he’s the big kahuna and he should know. But then again, I don’t want to land Norman in trouble because when all’s said and done, Norman’s a good man.
‘Yes,’ I whisper.
And shit, he’s smiling at that. He’s actually smiling. Does he really know that the Norman department does nothing at all, that while one of Norman’s extraneous secretaries buries her head in Sudoku puzzles, the other one makes endless cups of tea or reads romantic novels? And as for the head of the department, well, apart from flapping over a factory in Tyneside and reading the paper and moving his exercise bike from one side of the room to the other, I’m not sure what he gets up to at all.
‘So, have you finished that book yet?’
Oh great, so he does know that I do sweet Fanny Adams.
‘What book?’
‘The one on your desk. That romantic thing you’ve been busying yourself with?’
‘Ah …’
‘Ah … You like a happy ending then?’
‘It’s just … escapism.’
‘Of course it is.’
I shake my head and wish that I could disappear in a cloud of smoke.
‘I was quite taken with your artistic abilities.’
‘It was nothing. Just a doodle.’
He’s frowns at me, his lips curling ever so slightly at one side of his mouth. ‘I think it was more than that.’
More than that? What on Earth is he getting at now? I have absolutely no idea. It’s time to change the course of the conversation.
‘I didn’t think someone like you would come into a place like this.’
‘I wouldn’t …’ He reaches up and loosens his tie. ‘Normally. But you came in here, so naturally I had to follow.’
‘You had to?’
He nods. ‘I couldn’t leave you on your own.’
‘But …’
He says nothing more, just stares at me, straight in the eyes and runs his fingers down the length of his tie, slowly, lazily. With a quivering hand, I take a sip of my drink and stare resolutely out of the window. I’m feeling distinctly uncomfortable now because I know that those eyes are still examining me, and because my breath is faltering and my stomach has begun to churn. I want to look back at him but I can’t. I can’t look into those eyes. He’ll have me mesmerised before I can say ‘rip my bloody knickers off.’
‘It’s interesting isn’t it?’ he as
ks. ‘Seeing how the other half live.’
Arrogant bastard! My brain explodes. He’s so up himself. I glance at his expensive shirt, his gold cufflinks, his Rolex watch, and I desperately want to tell him that he’s currently wearing a year’s worth of salary for one of those poor bastards he’s about to make redundant.
‘So,’ he says quietly. ‘Tell me about yourself.’
What? Why do you want to know about me? I’d like to ask him if he’s making a move because I’m slightly suspicious that he is. And then, if he is making a move, I’d like to inform him that he’s wasting his time because I don’t date bastards. I open my mouth and my lips falter. At last, I look up to find a flicker of amusement in those eyes.
‘For example, where did you grow up?’ he helps me out.
‘On the East Coast.’ My words jitter through the air. ‘A small town called Limmingham.’
He nods slightly. ‘Family?’
‘Er … yes.’ I swallow.
He tilts his head forwards, prompting me to elaborate.
‘Mum and Dad still live there.’ In a tiny house, on a tiny pension, seeing as my dad lost his job when the local factory was shut down by a rich pig-head like you. ‘I’ve got an older sister. She’s in Oxfordshire now. Married with kids.’
‘How old is she?’ he asks and I’m wondering why he’s so interested.
‘Thirty-five.’
‘Same age as me. And you’re twenty-six. That’s quite a gap.’
Good grief. He remembered my age.
‘I think I was an accident.’
‘A quirk of fate,’ he smiles.
My breath catches. I’m a quirk of fate? Does that make me a good thing or a bad thing? And what’s he getting at now? And why is he smiling again? And oh God, in spite of the fact that he’s a complete bastard, he really has got a gorgeous smile. But then again, it’s probably fake.
‘What’s your sister’s name?’ he asks.
I watch his face. The smile dissolves into nothing, his features becoming a mask. There’s a slight twitch of his right eyebrow. Nothing more. Why does he want to know that tiny, irrelevant detail? I dismiss it all. He’s just making small talk.
‘Sara.’
He stares at me now. And that eyebrow has definitely twitched again.
‘And how about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘You’re not married?’
‘No.’ Stupidly, I wave my left hand in the air. Why the hell am I doing that?
‘Relationship?’
What? Stop asking stuff like that. I’m not going out with you, you pig.
‘No.’
And is that really any business of yours, my brain seethes. And anyway, why do you want to know? Surely, you’re not going to …
‘Come out for dinner with me on Friday night.’
Oh shit, he is. And he has. And now my brain is turning cartwheels, displacing all sensible thoughts in every possible direction. No, a voice screams out inside my head. This is not the man for you. He places a hand on my arm and I fizzle. My brain has shot into orbit and I want it back. After all, I need it to make a sensible decision.
‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking I’m a nasty piece of work.’
‘I …’ Of course I am. A completely arrogant, smarmy, up-your-own-arse, nasty piece of work. ‘No, I’m not.’
‘Is that because of the meeting?’
‘No, not at all.’
‘But it is what you’re thinking?’
‘Yes.’
What? Yes? Why did I have to blurt that one out?
‘So, why am I a nasty piece of work?’
I scan the crappy coffee shop, as if I’m going to find any answers here.
‘It’s okay,’ he adds, and the smile is back. ‘I know I have a reputation and believe me, I deserve it. To keep a company like mine on its feet, it’s actually a requirement to be a nasty piece of work.’
‘But those jobs. That factory.’
‘Those jobs need to be sacrificed to save the company. Do you know how many people work for me in total?’
I shake my head, feeling ridiculously stupid.
‘Five thousand, give or take. That’s not to mention the contractors and the sub-contractors around the world. If Fosters doesn’t function with efficiency, then there’s much more at stake than two hundred and twenty five jobs.’
‘Oh.’
‘Remember the bigger picture, Maya. The company is everything.’
‘To you?’
Yes, definitely to you. You wouldn’t be wearing expensive bloody suits and expensive shirts and bloody off the radar, expensive watches if it wasn’t for your profit margin, you git.
‘To everyone who works for it,’ he says quickly. ‘Now, about that dinner.’
Oh God, he’s not going to let it go.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I do.’
His eyes skim me up and down, taking in my too-small blouse and too-short skirt. I curse myself for failing to go shopping last night. I really do need to sort myself out and stop relying on Lucy’s work clothes.
‘I’ll pick you up at eight.’
I should be shaking my head by now. I should be whispering a quick ‘No thank you.’ In fact, in all probability, I should be screaming a huge ‘No thank you.’ But instead, I sit silently, watching as he stands up and shrugs his body back into the expensive jacket, giving me just enough time to admire the ripple of muscles beneath his shirt.
‘But you don’t even know where I live.’
‘I’m your boss.’ He straightens the cuffs and twitches the jacket back into shape. ‘Of course I know where you live. Eight o’clock. Wear a dress.’
As he begins to make his way towards the exit, my heartbeat flicks up another gear. I don’t even own a dress. And anyway, who the hell does the bastard think he is ordering me around? And more than that, why on Earth have I gone all hot? I turn to tell him that he can stick his dinner up his arse, but he’s already gone.
Chapter Six
I let my shoulders sag and stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror. I’m dressed in one of Lucy’s trademark short, flowery dresses with a deep V-neck. My hair tumbles down over my shoulders. I’ve managed to keep Lucy at bay with the make-up bag and I’ve sorted myself out: a quick application of eyeliner, mascara and pale eye shadow. Nothing more. And then there’s the jewellery: a silver chain and a Yorkshire jet pendant, with matching dangly earrings, all left to me by my grandmother, the only jewellery I love to wear.
‘I told you this would happen,’ Lucy drawls from the bed. ‘You’ve bagged yourself a rich, powerful businessman.’
Turning away from the mirror, I scowl in Lucy’s general direction.
‘No, I bloody well haven’t.’
‘Mr Mean and Hot and Moody has asked you out. It’s perfect. It’s that skirt.’
I turn back to my reflection and glance down at my legs. They’re far too scrawny. If anything, the strip of material that Lucy calls a skirt should have put him off.
‘Mr Mean and Hot and Moody has not asked me out. He’s virtually ordered me to go out with him.’
‘And that’s sexy.’
‘How on Earth is that sexy?’
‘All that power.’
‘All that arrogance,’ I laugh and then I shake my head. Good God, Lucy really does need to get a grip on reality. And more than that, she’d do better to concentrate on her own pathetic love life instead of living vicariously through mine. I can’t remember the last time she dated anyone. I catch a breath. Shit, is this a date?
‘Stuff this,’ I hiss. ‘I’m not going.’
‘Why not?’ Lucy sits up quickly. I can see her face in the mirror. She’s looking distinctly panic-stricken.
‘This whole situation. I just don’t like it.’
And that’s a lie. I like it very much. I’d be an idiot if I didn’t. A thoroughly gorgeous, thoroughly rich, thoroughly powerful man seems to have taken some sort of i
nterest in me, and I’m loving it. But you shouldn’t love it, the sensible part of my brain complains. He’s a shit. And besides, you’ve sworn yourself off men. After Tom, you need to get yourself back on track. You need to start painting again, and that’s never going to happen if you let another man into your life because if you do, the only thing that’s going to happen is heartache, especially if the man in question is an arrogant womaniser.
‘I fancy him but I don’t like him.’
‘Fair enough. If you get the chance, just shag him and be done with it.’
‘You know I’m through with that sort of stuff.’
She nods mutely, knowing full well that casual sex is off the menu in my world.
I’ve been there, done that and worn the T-shirt … several times. I shiver involuntarily, recalling the after-effects of the break-up: the stream of men picked up in bars; the seedy, drunken one night stands conducted in one soulless flat after another; the cold morning-afters, walking unknown streets with tears in my eyes, searching desperately for the nearest tube station.
‘And besides,’ I add. ‘I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well …’ I wonder what I can say now. Why isn’t it as simple as that? Is it because he’s fuck-off gorgeous? Is it because my body seems to be completely incapable of resisting him? Or is it that my mind seems to chuck reason out of the window every time he’s anywhere near me?
‘I think …’ I muse, ‘if I have anything to do with him, I’ll end up getting hurt.’
‘How?’
‘I could get wrapped up in a man like that. I could become addicted. And that’s not good.’
‘Why not?’
‘Can you think of anything that’s addictive that’s actually good for you?’
‘Cigarettes,’ Lucy mutters to herself. ‘Booze. Heroin. Cakes … No,’ she announces at last. ‘You’re right.’
‘I’d get wrapped up in him, and he’d just use me.’
‘There’s always something, isn’t there?’ she sighs. ‘Why can’t they just be perfect?’