Dangerous Male

by Marjorie Lewty

  Cynthia was a large, redhaired girl, and very pregnant. She pushed back her chair wearily and said, 'Thank God for that! The brat's getting so active that I can't concentrate.' She grimaced towards the inner door. 'Relations have got slightly strained this morning. I managed to jam the works—' she nodded towards a word-processor on her desk of the same kind that Gemma had been using '—and Durrant's been in a foul mood in consequence.'

  She eyed Gemma up and down as she stood just inside the door in her neat navy-blue and white outfit—one of the ones she had bought this morning—with her fair hair tied back demurely and her mouth stretched in a smile that felt as if it were glued on. 'So you're the one that Durrant's bringing in from outside, are you?'

  'Outside?' echoed Gemma.

  'Outside our cosy little set-up here,' Cynthia explained. 'I hope you've been warned what to expect. Have you given her the low-down on our Miss Wright, Brenda?'

  Brenda shook her head. 'I'll leave that to you.' There was a faint sound from behind and she said hastily, 'I must dash now, I've got an appointment at two.' She shot out of the office just as the door to the inner office opened and Harn appeared in the doorway. He looked very formidable standing there in a dark suit, his large body almost filling the space. Gemma felt her inside contract with something like fear.

  'I'd like you to come in straight away, Gemma,' he said. He hardly looked at her and he sounded terse and distant. She tried to remind herself that this was business, and forget the commotion that was going on inside her as she remembered how yesterday he had held her in his arms and kissed her and called her a little witch.

  'And you can get along home now, Cynthia,' he said. 'I'll put Gemma in the picture myself.' He added almost as an afterthought, 'Good luck for the big occasion—I hope he or she puts in an appearance without too much fuss. Keep in touch.' He disappeared into the inner sanctum.

  Cynthia pulled a face behind his back as she began to open drawers and take out her belongings. 'Cut along, then,' she said to Gemma. 'For Pete's sake don't keep him waiting. And the best of British luck—you'll need it!'

  Feeling very small, Gemma followed Harn into his office. When she got inside she felt even smaller. It was positively palatial and she had to walk across yards and yards of thick mole-coloured carpet to reach his enormous desk, situated in the far distance, where he was already seated.

  She stood in front of the desk and waited while he frowned over some papers. Then he looked up and said irritably, 'Sit down, sit down.'

  Gemma sat on the edge of the visitor's chair opposite.

  He looked up at her at last, then glanced at the digital clock on his desk. 'I've a meeting at two, so there's no time to lose. Now, this is what I want you to get on with: There's a big Japanese contract in the pipeline and I need a report typing by tomorrow afternoon. It's all on tape ready for you and, as you'll see, that dimwit Cynthia has made a start. A deplorable start, I may say. See if you can sort it out and get it done by the time I get back later today. I can then revise it and you can print out the final copy tomorrow morning. O.K.?'

  Gemma nodded. 'Yes, Mr Durrant,' she said crisply.

  'You can use your own judgment as to the layout. I want the report on disc. You can use the word-processor? You've mastered it?' He shot the questions at her.

  'Yes, Mr Durrant,' she said again. He wouldn't see her fingers crossed behind her back.

  'Right, I'll go, then. My diary's here on my desk.' He tapped a red leather-covered book. 'No appointments at all for the next two days. You'd better put the phone on automatic reply—I don't want you to be interrupted while you're on this typing job. It must come first.' He crossed the office in three strides and the door swung behind him.

  Gemma walked more slowly back to the secretary's office, and stared with something like horror at the mess of papers and notes on the desk. Cynthia had certainly made a start! 'In at the deep end,' she muttered. 'You're on your own now, chum.'

  She sat down and switched on the word-processor and began to concentrate.

  It was half-past five before Harn returned, but time had long since ceased to register for Gemma. Her eyes were aching with staring at the little white letters on the black screen; her hands were damp and her hair looked like a field of wheat when a rainstorm had flattened it. But the report was finished.

  She didn't hear Harn coming towards her across the thick carpet because she was leaning back exhausted in the typing chair, her eyes closed, while the printer was at work, typing out the pages of the report. 'Well, how's it going?'

  She jumped, catching her breath, and spun round in the swivel chair. 'I didn't hear you.'

  'Too busy with the technology?' He sounded pleased with life now, in a much softer mood than the one he had gone out in. He leaned down and peered over her shoulder at the final page of the report appearing on the paper, while the printer clattered away frenziedly. 'Looks O.K.,' he said. 'Have much difficulty?'

  'Well—' Gemma began cautiously, 'some of the terms were unfamiliar to me and I wasn't sure of the spelling. I tried to get hold of Brenda to ask her, but she was out and the person I spoke to in her department didn't help much.' That was an understatement. The woman behind the desk had looked daggers at her and snapped, 'I thought you were Mr Durrant's new secretary, surely you don't need to come down to us lower mortals asking for help.'

  'Ha! That would be our Miss Wright. You may not find her very co-operative. She thought she should get the job when Cynthia departed. But I thought definitely otherwise.' He chuckled. 'I don't work very well with lemon-faced females!' He placed both hands on Gemma's shoulders. 'I like my secretaries to look decorative. Poor old Cynthia used to look quite pretty before she made the mistake of getting herself married and pregnant.' He chuckled again. 'Marriage—the great trap for males and females. Don't you go and get married, will you, Gemma?'

  'I wasn't planning to just at present,' she said coldly.

  'But I gather from your tone that you don't share my aversion to the married state?'

  'Of course I don't,' she snapped. 'All girls—well, nearly all girls—want to get married.'

  'And don't I know it!' he said mock-bitterly, just as the printer came to a stop with a 'peep'.

  He pulled the paper out of the machine and picked up the little pile of pages on the desk. 'Now then,' he said, 'let's go over this together.'

  It was after six by the time Harn had finished revising the report and the sheets of paper were covered with arrows and squiggles and underlinings. 'Think you can sort it all out tomorrow morning and have it printed out in time for my meeting at two?'

  'I'm sure I can,' said Gemma, with more confidence than she felt. She would arrive very early, she planned, and give herself plenty of time. This was her first big assignment and she wasn't going to slip up on it if she could help it.

  Harn stood up and stretched stiffly. 'All this sitting around doesn't suit me. I'll have to have a good work-out in the squash court in the morning.'

  The phone rang. 'Who the hell's this at this hour?' Harn muttered as Gemma picked up the receiver.

  'This is Mr Durrant's secretary speaking. Can I—'

  A female voice cut through her polite announcement. 'I want to speak to Harn Durrant. Will you put me through to him straight away.'

  Here we go again, Gemma thought. How do I get rid of this one? She said smoothly, 'I'm not sure if Mr Durrant has left or not. I'll go and see. Who shall I tell him, please?'

  A husky laugh. 'Just say the Clicquot's on ice, waiting for him.'

  Gemma put her hand over the receiver and looked up at Harn, her face expressionless. 'It seems there's some champagne waiting for you. Are you still here, or do you want me to go through the old routine again?'

  He took the phone out of her hand. 'Yvonne? Yes—yes, I've been working on a job. Yes, I meant to ring you, but you know how it is.' He looked at his watch. 'Give me twenty minutes, I've got my car here. That champagne sounds very inviting.' The last sentence in a deliberately
wolfish tone. ' 'Bye, darling.'

  Gemma was tidying up her desk, trying hard not to listen, while every word went into her mind and stayed there, stinging like little poisoned arrows. Why on earth had she put the phone back on manual just before Harn came back? If she hadn't, the Yvonne female would have merely received a recorded message—and she could have yearned back a reply as throbbily as she liked, but Gemma would not have had to hear it.

  Harn grinned at her as he replaced the receiver, a wicked glint in his dark eyes. 'I shan't need your help with this one, Gemma dear.'

  She took her handbag from the top drawer and closed it carefully. 'May I go home now?'

  'Certainly. Goodnight, Gemma. I'll lock up,' he said absently. He turned back to his own office without another glance in her direction.

  'Goodnight, Mr Durrant,' she said, and then, because she must begin now this moment to be a new Gemma—a cool, modern girl who could give as good as she received—she added lightly, 'Enjoy your champagne.'

  He turned his head and she saw his dark brows go up in surprise. For a moment they stared at each other. His face was expressionless, while her mouth curved in a quirky little smile, and only heaven knew how much it cost her. Then she went out of the office and closed the door behind her.

  Blindly she made her way through the empty general office and down in the lift to the main lobby, where the night porter gave her a searching glance before he said, ' 'Night, miss.'

  She mumbled a reply and almost ran past him and out into the street, where the cool air was blowing off the river and the crowds on the pavements were thinning out. She must stop thinking about Harn all the time, she told herself desperately as she joined the bus queue. She should have been prepared for the fact that he had a girl in London—and a girl he didn't want to get rid of. She pictured him walking into some plushy apartment and being enfolded in the white arms of a luscious girl in floating chiffon; throwing off his jacket and settling back into the corner of a deep sofa with velvet cushions, a champagne glass in one hand while the other arm held a softly yielding body against his.

  The riddle was solved. The letter she had heard on the dictaphone was addressed to this Yvonne. She heard again his voice murmuring sexily, 'Love me? I adore you.' Damn, thought Gemma, blinking hot tears away. Oh, damn, damn, damn!

  Beth had been right, Harn Durrant was a womaniser. From a personal point of view he wasn't worth her second thought. But it would be stupid to miss the chance of an interesting job just because she had got an adolescent crush on her boss. She would get over it in time, and this sickening grip of jealousy would loose its hold on her inside.

  A bus pulled up and she climbed to the top deck. Looking down through the window, hazy with cigarette smoke, on to the slowly-moving pack of car roofs below, she repeated silently to herself, 'I'm a London girl now, a cool, modern girl, crisp and efficient, with an important, responsible job. I'm not soppy like Julia Moore, or brash and aggressive like Vera Knight. Or husky and seductive like this horrible Yvonne. I'm me, and I can hold out against this useless yearning I've got for Harn Durrant. I've jolly well got to!'

  After which sensible pep-talk she took from her pocket the copy she had made of some of the more complicated functions of the word-processor, and concentrated on it (with one or two lapses) until she reached her stop.

  CHAPTER SIX

  'How about Friday for the party?' asked Brenda. 'It's time you got to know the general office bods. You've been in purdah in Harn's quarters since you arrived.'

  Gemma giggled, 'You make it sound like a harem!' She tipped some cucumber wedges into a bowl of yoghourt. It was her turn to cook supper and she was making a chicken curry. Brenda was a super cook and could turn out exotic foreign dishes in double-quick time, but Gemma, whose cooking skills had been more prosaic up to now, was learning fast.

  Brenda tucked away the work she had brought home with her and began to set the table in the small, well-equipped kitchen. 'That figures,' she said, and there was a faintly bitter edge to her voice. 'There's always been safety in numbers where Harn Durrant is concerned.'

  'Don't I know it?' Gemma concentrated upon slicing chicken. 'My first job, back in Lessington, was to cope with his discarded girl-friends. So far,' she added casually, 'it hasn't been necessary here.'

  There was a sudden silence, then Brenda clattered the cutlery on to the table. 'Just wait a bit until he gets tired of the glamorous Yvonne. She's been number one for some months now. It's about time for him to move on, I'd calculate.'

  'Yvonne? Yes, she rang him up the other evening.' Gemma was proud of her offhand manner; she could almost begin to believe that she had won her own private little battle. 'Who is she—do you know?'

  'Actress. Mostly TV commercials—although I haven't seen her on the box lately. Maybe her luck's running out.' There was a spiteful note in Brenda's voice, but she didn't continue the conversation. 'What about the party? I think Friday would be a good day for most people.'

  They spent most of the evening making plans, and when Gemma went to bed in the comfortable small bedroom overlooking the open area planted with trees and shrubs at the rear of the premises she reflected with satisfaction that she was really beginning to get settled down in London and adjust to the pace of the city.

  The work was demanding, and she came home exhausted each evening, but she thought she was managing to satisfy Harn's demands on her. Their relationship had changed. He was very much the chief executive now, unapproachable except on business matters. The informality of Durrants (Fine Paper) office had stayed behind up in the Midlands. It was impossible to imagine herself telling him to shut up, as she remembered doing on one occasion.

  Not that she saw very much of him; most of his time seemed to be taken up with meetings, either in his own office or elsewhere. This new deal that was in the pipeline with a Japanese firm was occupying all his time and energy, and he was pursuing it with a relentless determination that left Gemma gasping sometimes when she transcribed the notes and reports which, she guessed, he must have stayed up half the night working on. Most evenings she went home to leave him working, with the help of his personal computer, on abstruse problems of production and marketing. She wondered when he managed to relax. With Yvonne, no doubt. She could even contemplate that without the sickening turmoil in her stomach that she had felt the first time.

  In short, she was pleased with her progress towards turning herself into a modern young woman in a top job, with Brenda always as her model. It wasn't much of an exaggeration when she wrote to Beth, who by now was having a deliriously happy time in Naples, 'Everything is going along splendidly and I'm learning fast and really enjoying life, Beth dear, so don't worry about me.'

  The day of the party turned out specially busy and Gemma began to get edgy when the clock had come round to six-thirty and Harn was still showing no sign of releasing her.

  She was in Harn's office, taking instructions about information she was in progress of obtaining in connection with the Japanese deal, when suddenly he stopped speaking and said curtly, 'What's the matter with you tonight, Gemma? You're as jumpy as blazes. Got a date or something?'

  The perfect secretary doesn't fuss when she happens to be kept late. 'N-no,' she stammered, 'I'm all right.'

  He regarded her keenly. 'As I once remarked before, you're a rotten liar. Come on, let's have it.'

  She grinned wryly. 'It's just that Brenda is giving a small party tonight and I wanted to be in time to help her with the preparations. But it doesn't matter a bit. Please let's go on.' She poised her pencil over her notebook and waited.

  He pushed the papers aside. 'There's no immediate hurry for this. We'll leave it till the morning.' He sat back and studied her face. 'How's it going, Gemma? Are you settling down and enjoying London?'

  'Oh yes, thank you, Mr Durrant,' she said sedately. 'Brenda has made me very comfortable.'

  'And provided you with some prospective boyfriends, no doubt?'

  'Well, no, there hasn't been m
uch time for socialising yet. This party is mostly for me to meet the rest of the staff here.'

  'I see.' He went on looking at her for what seemed a very long time in silence until she began to feel embarrassed under his scrutiny. Then he blinked as if he were remembering something and said quickly, 'Right, Gemma, you get away now and cut your sandwiches. Enjoy your party,' he added casually, turning back to his papers.

  'Thank you, Mr Durrant,' Gemma was on her feet in a flash. 'Goodnight.'

  'Goodnight,' he said absently, and she knew he had already forgotten her.

  By half-past nine people began drifting in. Brenda evidently considered it the normal time, although it seemed to Gemma very late to begin a party. But at least it had given her time to shower, and do her hair and make-up, and dress in the cornflower-blue crepe with the finely-pleated skirt and silver belt, which was the only dress she had that was suitable for a party. She hadn't yet bought any party clothes in London; she was waiting to see how the money worked out before she splashed out on luxuries. But this dress was nearly new, and the only time she had worn it—at a friend's wedding—everyone said it suited her.

  The big living room of the flat had been transformed. The chairs were pushed back to leave plenty of room for the guests to mingle. The glass-topped table was loaded with mouthwatering snacks and dishes of nuts and crisps and savoury biscuits and the fridge was stacked with bottles of wine. The lights were shaded, throwing a pink glow over the whole room, and a hi-fi moaned softly in one corner.

  Brenda looked gorgeous in a grass-green satin sheath, slit at the sides, her raven hair shining like black satin. She was more animated than Gemma had seen her yet, flitting about, greeting the guests at the door with hugs and cries as if they were long-lost friends instead of colleagues with whom she had spent most of the day working. Gemma hardly recognised any of them in their party get-ups. Her own experience of parties up to now was of the student variety, but this one was very different. Not a pair of jeans in sight or a scruffy hair-do. Undoubtedly, these young people had been hand-picked by Harn Durrant, and they were bound for success in the business world.