Acapulco Moonlight

by Marjorie Lewty

'Hullo Karen,' Jean said now. 'I'd like a word with Ben, is he in his office?'

  Karen shook her head. 'He's just popped into town.. He won't be long. Can I help?'

  'No, not really. Give me a buzz when he gets back, will you?'

  As she turned away Karen said quickly, 'He's going to be tied up for most of the morning. An important appointment.'

  Jean stopped, hesitated, and then blurted out quickly, 'Karen, something's wrong, isn't it? Ben hasn't been himself lately. He's not ill, is he?'

  'Ill? Why, no. At least I don't think so.' Come to think of it, she had noticed that Ben had been taking a lot more of his indigestion tablets lately, but that wasn't surprising, considering the strain he'd been under.

  'Don't you know? Jean's pale cheeks had gone faintly pink. 'I'd have thought one of the jobs of a personal assistant ‑' she seemed to put the words in quotes '—was to keep an eye on her chief's health.'

  There was more than a hint of aggression in Jean's tone and Karen said warmly, 'I certainly should if I thought there was any way I could help him. Ben's not the kind of man to be nannied, you know.'

  Jean stared at her, her eyes hostile under their light lashes. 'You don't have to tell me what kind of a man Ben is.'

  She turned on the heel of her sensible brown shoes and walked rapidly away to the far end of the aisle.

  Karen stood looking after her, a little frown between her brows. She and Jean had always hit it off quite well, although Jean wasn't the kind of girl you could get close to. But today she seemed really unfriendly. Karen shrugged as she went back to the office. Maybe something had gone wrong at home that was upsetting Jean—you never really knew about people's troubles unless they confided in you and you just had to make allowances.

  She stood in the doorway of the office looking around it before she went in, wondering how it would appear to a tycoon like this Saul Marston. Very tatty, probably. He himself would no doubt have one of those ultra-modern offices, full of computers and word-processors and telex machines.

  'We really ought to modernise in the office,' Ben had said only last month, with a disgusted look at the desk with its single telephone and the intercom he had bought three years ago and which was already out of date. But next day had come a letter from Christine's solicitor which had caused Ben to mutter under his breath about sharks, and after that no more had been said about modernising the office. Karen didn't know what was in the letter, but guessed it was a demand for money. Christine had brought the divorce suit on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour and Ben had been so shocked and unhappy about the whole wretched business that he had decided not to contest it, and the final settlement had been all in Christine's favour.

  'I suppose she had a case,' Ben had said wearily to Karen, when it was all over. 'I haven't been much of a husband these last few years—working all hours of the day and night.'

  'But you were doing it for her,' Karen had put in, trying to control the angry resentment she felt on Ben's behalf.

  'Only partly, I'm afraid,' he had admitted. 'This place here has meant pretty well everything to me lately. No wife will stand for that.'

  Karen said nothing but inside she had disagreed with him. She believed that in a good marriage there should be understanding and friendship. A time to give and a time to take. It had seemed to her that Christine had wanted to do all the taking and she would have liked to do battle on Ben's behalf and tell his spoilt little wife just what she thought of her.

  But of course it hadn't been any of her business, and all she could do was to make herself as useful as possible to Ben in the months that followed the divorce. In those months he had come to rely more and more on her and she had learned all there was to learn about the administrative side of the company, which had freed Ben to devote more time to his first love—the technical side.

  But it hadn't really worked, Karen thought now, sadly. She knew enough about business to understand the difficulty. It was all too small. They worked too near the margins all the time. The orders came in, but suppliers got peevish about their accounts not being paid and once or twice actually held up deliveries of materials, which meant that orders weren't met on time, customers complained, and so it went on, like a chain that got weaker and weaker in every link until it was nearly breaking. Then, inevitably, the most important link had broken. The new bank manager had finally refused to extend the overdraft. There was just enough money left to pay the girls at the end of the week and then—that would be that. Ben would have to agree to a receiver being called in. Karen felt suddenly cold as the bleak word 'bankrupt' came into her mind.

  Unless—unless—a fairy godfather in the person of this Saul Marston came to the rescue. He must, Karen thought now, crossing her fingers hard as she sat down in Ben's chair. There was so much potential here, she was sure of it, the only lack was capital. Ben was brilliant at his own job—so many people said so.

  Only last week he had completed work on an original gadget—an electronic component of an entirely new and advanced design. Karen opened his desk drawer and took out the big folder that contained his beautiful drawings. 'My baby,' he had said only yesterday, patting the folder lovingly, and added with his wry grin, 'I'm afraid the poor little brute is going to be stillborn.'

  Karen looked at the drawings that had taken him all those weeks of concentrated work. Technically they meant nothing to her, but she knew how much they meant to Ben, and that was enough for her. She would leave them out on the desk and hope that Ben wouldn't be too modest to show them to this Saul person, when he arrived.

  She began, methodically, to put the books in the order in which he would probably want to examine them, but before she had finished the office door flew open and Lucy's face appeared, her cheeks bright pink, her eyes popping out.

  'He's here,' she mouthed silently, and aloud, in the primmest voice she could muster, 'Mr Marston to see Mr Clark.'

  Karen's eyes went in horror to the clock over the door. It said three minutes to ten. He had said eleven, she knew he had. Her heart started to thud like a steam-hammer. Ben couldn't possibly be back for another half-hour, possibly more if he had gone to have a hair-cut as he'd threatened.

  For a moment cold panic shook her, but only for a moment. She was Ben's personal assistant and it was the job of a personal assistant to stand in for her chief if necessary, wasn't it? Oh, but not in a life-or-death situation like this, wailed a faint voice inside her. Shut up, Karen shrieked silently at it, you can only do your best, can't you?

  She drew in a quick breath. 'Ask Mr Marston to come in, Lucy.'

  From a long distance she heard Lucy say. 'Will you come in, sir, please,' in an awed voice, far removed from her usual breezy tone.

  Karen steadied herself. Lucy was doing her best, now it was her turn. She stood up and came round the desk, and she would have felt encouraged if she could have known the picture she presented—that of a smooth young woman executive—a tallish girl, her dark hair shining, her white blouse immaculate, her scarlet pleated skirt swishing softly round her slender legs.

  She often remembered afterwards that first sight of Saul Marston and the extraordinary effect he had on her. As Lucy drew back he appeared in the doorway and immediately the office seemed smaller, shabbier. Then the background went out of focus and there was only the man standing there, tall, dark, arrogantly opulent in a pale, supple suede . car-coat that just reached his thighs, topping black, fashionably-cut trousers. The whole outfit must have cost the earth. In the poorly-lit office the unsmiling eyes that met hers glinted like polished jet tinder thick, curving lashes. Snowflakes had settled on his thick, dark hair. There was something in the way he stood there, absolutely still, that stirred an odd sensation, almost like fear, in the pit of Karen's stomach.

  The few seconds stretched into timelessness. Fear wouldn't have been altogether out of place, confronting this man. It was ridiculous, of course, but something about him seemed to spell danger.

  Then Karen's secretarial training came to
her rescue and she stepped forward, holding out a hand, and heard her own voice say pleasantly, 'Good morning, Mr Marston, I'm Karen Lane, Mr Clark's personal assistant. I'm afraid Mr Clark had to go into town— trouble with his car—and he isn't back yet. He shouldn't be long—perhaps you'd like a cup of coffee while you wait.'

  He took her hand briefly, and again she felt that tweak of—what was it, fear?—as she experienced the hard strength of his clasp. He crossed to the desk in two strides. 'No coffee thank you and I shan't be waiting. I have only a very short time to spare. I have a meeting in London.' He picked up the drawings of Ben's new component. 'What's this?'

  She stared at him blankly for a moment, taken aback by his abrupt, almost rude approach. Then she remembered that she was supposed to be backing Ben up in every possible way, and she made herself smile. 'I'm afraid I don't understand the technicalities. I just know it's a project that Mr Clark has been working on for some time. It's a—a—sort of switch, I think.'

  He didn't smile back and as he raised his eyes and looked at her there was that odd, sinking feeling inside her again. 'I can see that,' he said curtly. 'Is it in production?'

  Surly beast, Karen thought. How could she go on being pleasant to him? But she must, and she was on firmer ground now. 'Oh no, not yet. Mr Clark has been so busy recently ‑' her voice trailed off as she met his gaze—the glittering black eyes were narrowed as they fixed themselves on her face. 'But he'll be able to tell you all about it himself when he comes back.'

  'Possibly.' He was looking round the office now and Karen's heart sank, seeing it as he was probably seeing it: the scratched desk, the old electric typewriter, the green metal filing cabinets that Ben had bought second-hand. And it was a disaster that only yesterday the PVC that covered the visitor's chair had split and the innards were poking through.

  'Won't you sit down, Mr Marston? And perhaps you'd like to be looking through the books,' Karen suggested hastily.

  He sat down opposite to her and she pushed the books and folders across the desk to him one by one. 'Order book, day book, work in progress, cash book, bank statements .. .'

  He glanced briefly through each in turn, flicking the pages over almost contemptuously with one long, well-manicured finger. Karen's eyes went desperately to the side window, through which she could get a view of part of the small car-park. Ben, where are you? Please come back soon. Please. But all she saw were the long, graceful lines of a Rolls Royce, its radiator cap gleaming silver in the murky gloom, snow-flakes gathering on its elegant dark-green bonnet.

  Suddenly she realised he had spoken. 'Balance sheet? Profit and loss account?'

  She opened another folder and took out last years' audited accounts. 'This is where the crunch will come, when he sees these,' Ben had said morosely last night. 'He'll probably walk out on the spot.'

  But Saul Marston didn't walk out. He lowered his head over the papers while Karen watched, fascinated, as the last remaining snow-flake melted and merged into his hair. It was thick hair, very strong and springy, the kind of hair that needs firm treatment to make it conform. Her glance travelled down to what she could see of his face from this angle. His skin was sun-tanned (winter sports, no doubt.) The wide forehead with the faintest of horizontal grooves gave his face an authoritative look, only slightly belied by those sensational lashes hiding his eyes.

  Then abruptly, and to Karen's utter confusion, he raised his eyes and looked across the desk at her, not lifting his head. She flinched as if she had received a sword-thrust, but his voice, when he spoke, was quiet. 'These figures are pretty damning,' he said. 'Have you any observations to make about them?'

  Oh Ben, how should I answer that?

  She swallowed. 'Do you mean can I justify them? Explain them?'

  She thought she saw a flicker of amusement in the jet-black eyes. Oh no, Mr Saul Marston, you're not going to patronise me. 'I'd have thought they were self-explanatory, to a man of your experience,' she said quite calmly. 'Our difficulty is with cashflow. As you can see, we're trying to work on a capital that is much too small for the potentially expanding side of the business.'

  He was watching her as she spoke, his face expressionless. She couldn't judge whether he was annoyed or not by her flash of brief defensive spirit. He sat back in his chair. 'You sum it up admirably,' he said. 'Won't the bank manager play ball?'

  Karen spread out her hands. 'Not any longer.'

  'H'm—well—he probably knows what he's doing.' He was standing up now. He's going, Karen thought desperately. He's just going to walk out and all Ben's hopes and chances are going with him.. She jumped to her feet and flew round the desk to stand between Saul Marston and the door.

  'Mr Marston, please don't go yet. Please don't make up your mind until you've seen Ben—Mr Clark.' The words tumbled out; her cheeks were pink; her hazel eyes very bright. 'This is really an excellent set-up here. We have lots of good customers and plenty more showing interest. The staff are marvellous—loyal and dependable and highly skilled. And Mr Clark himself is really a brilliant designer—everyone says so.' She paused, breathing rather fast, her eyes searching his impassive face. 'Won't you come round the workshop and see for yourself?'

  Again she saw amusement in the black depths of his eyes. 'You make a good advocate, Miss Lane,' he said. He shrugged slightly. 'O.K., lead on.'

  Karen's knees were like jelly as she opened the door into the workshop and she breathed a silent prayer of relief when she saw Charlie Benson, the works manager, standing at one of the assembly tables nearby.

  She called to him and he came across to where they stood. 'Mr Marston this is our works' manager, Mr Benson. Charlie, Mr Marston would like to see everything that's going on here. Would you take him round and answer any questions he has?'

  'O.K., Miss Lane.' Charlie gave her his cheery grin and glanced at the man who stood beside her. Charlie was nobody's fool and he had a knack for summing people up; he was seldom wrong. 'This way, sir.' His voice held a certain deference. Karen stood and watched them walk away together, Charlie small and amiable, chatting happily as they moved from one table to the next. Saul Marston nodding briefly, pausing now and again for a word with one of the girls.

  Well, at least he was looking, that was something. There certainly wouldn't be anything he could fault in the workshop, however dismal the books and accounts might be. She went back into the office and peered out of the window. The snow was gathering thickly now on the bonnet of the Rolls, but her own little Mini, with Ben inside, was nowhere to be seen.

  'That's it then, Miss Lane.' Saul Marston's deep, clipped voice came from behind her and she spun round.

  'Won't you wait a little longer?' Karen made a last effort. 'Mr Clark should be here any moment now.'

  'No point,' he said briefly. 'I've seen all I want to see.' He picked up Ben's drawings and studied them again for a couple of minutes in silence. Then he put them down carefully on the desk and walked towards the door. 'Thank you for your help, Miss Lane. You've told me all I want to know.'

  Karen felt like death. This was how it must feel to stand in the dock and hear the judge pronouncing sentence. No hope. Nothing she could do now.

  But what could she say to Ben when he came back? She put her hand into the big, strong hand that Saul Marston was extending and somehow managed to frame the words that would surely get some response from him. Something she could tell Ben. 'What ‑' she began. 'What do you think?'

  Saul Marston stood there in his fabulous suede jacket, his immaculately-cut trousers and hand-made leather shoes, breathing affluence from every inch of him and looked slowly round the shabby office, at the desk littered with account books that told their own damning story.

  He shrugged. 'It's—pathetic,' he said.

  Her eyes widened and she could have struck out at him, only he was still holding her hand. She wanted to scream at him, 'Get out, get out, you arrogant bastard, and don't come back.' But of course she didn't; she just stood there, hating him. She had never felt s
uch violent loathing of anybody before in her whole life.

  He looked at her with that narrowed, assessing look. 'How's your shorthand?' He shot the question at her.

  'Excellent.' Her tone was equally clipped.

  'Yes,' he said. 'I thought it would be.' He paused thoughtfully and she realised that her hand was still enclosed in his. She wanted to drag it away but was quite helpless to do so. He went on looking at her for what seemed an age before he said, 'What on earth is a bright girl like you doing working in a dump like this? If you ever consider coming to London, get in touch with me. I could always find you a spot in one of my companies.'

  She found her voice then and she could almost hear the ice rattling in it. 'Thank you, Mr Marston,' she said. 'I shan't be taking you up on that.'

  'No?' The dark brows lifted. 'Pity.' Then, slowly, and for the first time, he smiled at her and she almost fainted as the impact of that smile slithered through her body. It started in his eyes, creasing them at the corners as the long dark lashes lowered, then pulled at his long, sensuous lips, showing teeth white against the brown of his skin. A devastating, utterly shattering smile.

  'Tell Mr Clark I'll be in touch,' he said. He released her hand and went out of the office. A moment later she heard the purr of the Rolls outside and then he was gone.

  Karen stood quite still, rubbing weakly at the hand that had been enclosed in his, feeling as if a great green tidal wave had washed over her. When Lucy's pink face appeared round the door she blinked at her stupidly.

  'Cor!' Lucy grinned. 'What about that, then? Quite something, wasn't he?'

  'What?' Karen mumbled. 'What did you say?'

  Lucy's blue eyes widened knowingly. 'I'll make you some more coffee,' she said. 'You look as if you need it.'

  The coffee helped and Karen's wits had returned by the time Ben came back into the office ten minutes later. He glanced at the clock. 'Made it with time to spare,' he announced. 'How do I look, ducky?'

  He minched across the office in imitation of a model on the catwalk. He wore a new white shirt with a jaunty blue-striped tie and his fair hair had been trimmed and brushed flat to his head. 'Everyone's idea of a managing director, what?'