Dangerous Male

by Marjorie Lewty

  Gemma began to understand why parties began late; the girls' make-up wasn't the kind that could be slapped on in minutes, and their hair-dos had the kind of casual elegance that takes hours to produce. Every one of them looked as if they might have been modelling for one of the glossy magazines. Their clothes were probably off the peg, but they wore them with confidence and flair. The men were carefully groomed too, even a trifle exotic, and smelling rather too much of aftershave, Gemma considered, and she didn't really like men in earrings.

  At first Brenda introduced Gemma casually to each newcomer, but soon the room was full of chatter and laughter and it was almost impossible to catch anybody's name. She stood by the wall looking around and trying to memorise them all. The only person she had spoken to previously in the office, except for saying 'hullo' in the lift, was Miss Wright, who worked in Brenda's department and who had been decidedly bitchy on that first day. She picked her out quite easily now, on the far side of the room, talking to another woman, their heads close together, the two of them looking out of place among the trendy young people around them. Miss Wright was an extremely plain woman of thirty-odd, with lanky nondescript hair and an unfortunate figure. She had chosen to wear bright yellow, and Gemma smothered a giggle as she remembered that Harn had called her a lemon-faced female.

  A plump man with a round, red face and a droopy moustache put a glass of wine in Gemma's hand and said, 'You're up on the top floor, aren't you? Harn's new acquisition? Lucky devil, he is!' He leered at her out of hazy, hot brown eyes. He had quite certainly been drinking a fair amount before he arrived. He slid an arm round her waist. 'I'm Vincent Bartholomew,' he pronounced the syllables carefully. 'On the road.'

  Gemma moved a little to detach herself. 'On the road?' she murmured.

  'A rep, darling. I sell the hardware.' His arm returned more purposefully.

  'Oh, yes?' she said vaguely. 'How nice for you. Will you excuse me, I think some more bottles are needed from the fridge.' She made a beeline for the kitchen.

  Brenda was washing glasses. 'I should have hired more, we've got a fair number of gatecrashers. You mingling all right, Gemma? Getting to know everybody?'

  'Oh yes, thank you,' fibbed Gemma tactfully. 'I think it's going very well, don't you?'

  Brenda gave her a sideways glance and said, 'Sorry I had to invite May Wright and her pal from Accounts. They don't exactly add to the fun and games, but May works with me, and I couldn't very well leave her out. Have you encountered her in the office yet?'

  Gemma arranged glasses on a tray. 'I went down looking for you, the first day I was here. I got stuck on some of the terms I hadn't met before. Miss Wright wasn't exactly helpful, and that's an understatement.'

  Brenda smiled tightly. 'Oh, you don't want to take any notice of her. Everyone knows what she's like. Would you take these glasses in, Gemma? The drink's going to run out soon unless someone brings some more bottles.'

  Gemma loaded her tray and, balancing it carefully, pushed open the kitchen door with her foot. Here she stopped as she caught a glimpse of a yellow dress, just on the other side of the door. Miss Wright's voice had a curiously carrying quality, and, although she was talking confidentially to someone on her other side, every word carried clearly to Gemma who stood, holding her tray against her hip, frozen to the spot.

  '—and he's brought back this chit of a girl he picked up in the Midlands. And you know what that means, don't you, dear?' A significant pause. 'He calls her his secretary, but she doesn't know the first thing about the business. She's been down to me already, begging for help.' A thin snigger. 'After what happened with you-know-who, you'd think he'd have the decency to keep his floozies away from the office, wouldn't you? I call it disgusting!'

  There was a murmur from her other side, which Gemma didn't catch, and then the unpleasant nasal voice again. 'Come on, dear, let's go. I know how this party will be later on, and I detest that kind of thing. I only came because it would have looked odd if I'd refused.' The voice dropped to a whisper. 'After all, I have to work with B.J., unfortunately.'

  Gemma waited until they had moved away before she went out into the living room. She felt horribly uncomfortable. Overheard conversations should be forgotten as soon as possible, she considered, and she hadn't really been very surprised at what she had heard May Wright say about herself. It was just what an envious, petty woman would say. But that bit about 'you-know-who' and 'B.J.'—who could only be Brenda— stuck in her mind as she circulated, filling glasses, and playing the hostess. Forget it, she told herself, it's no business of yours.

  Dancing had started now to a disco tune and Gemma didn't lack for partners. The men were queuing up to dance with her, and in the inevitable exchange of banter she managed to hold her own and began to feel that this was fun and that she was one of them, and was enjoying herself.

  Gradually the food ran out and most of the wine. Then a big man with side-whiskers and tight purple velvet trousers turned up carrying more bottles, and the drink began to circulate again.

  The atmosphere got hot and sultry. The lights were dimmed down to almost nothing and the music changed to a smoochy beat. Couples swayed together, locked in each other's arms. Gemma saw Vincent Bartholomew approaching, and escaped into her bedroom. Giggles and squeals came from the direction of the bed and she retreated again. The Bartholomew man was waiting on the other side of the door and grabbed her as she emerged.

  'Been lookin' for you, darlin'.' His voice was slurred and the hand that groped for her waist was hot and damp. 'C'm and dance.'

  Gemma looked round desperately for Brenda, but she was over on the other side of the room near the door, sitting on the floor, her head on the shoulder of a fair man who looked like a rugger player. There was no one else Gemma could appeal to and no escape without being rude. She wished she had the confidence to be rude, but this was Brenda's party and she couldn't make an unpleasant scene.

  The next few minutes were horrible. The Bartholomew man was being utterly insufferable. 'Don't do that!' she hissed, trying to drag herself away.

  'Aw, c'm on, sweetie, be a sport!' His breath was hot and unpleasant, near her face.

  'Let me go!' She began to struggle helplessly. Nobody else seemed to be taking the slightest bit of notice.

  Suddenly, from nowhere, a hand came between her and the Bartholomew man and separated them. A voice, curt and furious, said, 'You heard what the lady said, now get the hell out of here.'

  Gemma saw Vincent Bartholomew's full-moon face, crimson and foolish, fading into the background. Her arm was held firmly. 'Let's go,' said Harn Durrant. 'I'm sure you've had enough of this.'

  He propelled her through the crush of swaying couples to the door. Gemma heard him call out above the throb of the hi-fi, 'I'm borrowing my secretary for a short time, Brenda. Urgent work,' and then they were down the stairs and out into the blessed cool of the night air.

  'Want to walk to my car?' Harn said briskly. 'It's just around the corner. Or will you hang on here while I get it?' He bent down and studied her face in the light from the entrance. 'You're not drunk, are you?'

  'Certainly not!' Gemma said indignantly.

  He laughed. 'Don't sound so outraged! I know how Brenda's parties tick, and you're too young to be launched into that sort of thing, my child. Which is why I came to rescue you, and not without reason, it seems. That drip Bartholomew was on the prowl, wasn't he?'

  They started to walk along the dark, nearly-empty streets, and he linked his arm loosely with hers. Gemma was aware of a stirring of excitement at his touch, which she subdued with an effort, thinking how odd it was that the touch of one man could fill one with loathing while the touch of another man sent you swinging on a star.

  'We'll go to my flat,' said Harn as they found his car and got into it. 'You can stay long enough to make it look as if we'd been working and then I'll take you back to the party.'

  'Make it look as if we'd been working?' Gemma queried, puzzled.

  'Certainly, th
at's the idea.'

  'Then—then that isn't why you came for me? I thought it might be something to do with a late phone call to Japan?'

  He shook his head. 'Not tonight.'

  Gemma stole a glance at the strong, chiselled profile as his hand went out to the self-starter.

  'Then— she swallowed '—why are you taking all this trouble on my account?' She was beginning to feel very uneasy.

  'I ask myself that same question.' The engine purred into life. 'Let's say you're very young and I feel a certain responsibility towards you. You once asked me if I ever considered anyone besides myself—well, here's your answer, and I must say it surprises me as much as it no doubt surprises you.' With which cryptic reply he put the car into gear and it moved smoothly off.

  All the way to wherever it was Harn was taking her Gemma was beset with a variety of emotions, changing from near-panic to utter bliss. She tried to remember how many glasses of wine she had drunk at the party, but already the party was becoming a vague memory. The reality was that she was sitting beside Harn in his luxurious car, in the early hours of the morning, swooping along the darkened London streets. It was heaven, it was temptation, and she felt more confused and disturbed with every passing moment.

  This was London, she reminded herself, this was the Big Time. This was what she had wanted, and it was the most exciting thing she had ever done in her life. But she was frightened too, because she didn't know what lay at the end of the drive, when they reached Harn's flat. Does a man like she knew Harn Durrant to be take a girl to his flat at this hour and expect nothing more of her than a little polite conversation? There seemed only one answer to that, and she didn't know what she was going to do about it. But she felt a hazy recklessness stirring inside her, and she snuggled up to him, conscious of the warmth of his lean, hard-muscled body and the healthy male smell of the man.

  He glanced down and she could feel him smiling although she couldn't see his face. 'Tired?' he asked softly.

  'Um,' she murmured. 'It's way past my bedtime.'

  He laughed aloud. 'We'll have to see what we can do about that,' he said.

  Gemma sat up straight, pulling herself away from him with an effort. 'You're not thinking of—' she began, because if he was she wanted to know in advance.

  'Putting you to bed and singing a lullaby? The thought had occurred to me. But there's only one lullaby I know to sing to a pretty girl in bed, and you might be too young to recognise the tune.'

  He was fooling, of course. If he really meant to get her into his bed he wouldn't be making a joke of it. But he had this talent for turning the conversation into channels that all led in the same direction, and Gemma sat still and said nothing more until the car drew up outside a tall house in a square. Before Harn switched off the car lights they fell on the leaves of the trees, turning them to silver. It was very quiet in this backwater of London—only the ceaseless faint rumble of traffic in the distance. The night was still and warm and in the glimmer of the streets lights the houses looked imposing, with porticos and railings and steps leading up to heavy front doors.

  'Come along in,' said Harn. 'We'll make ourselves coffee and you can tell me the story of your life.

  She giggled. Yes, she must have drunk too much wine; that was why she felt so light and floaty as they climbed the steps arm in arm. Inside, the lobby was plushy and luxurious with soft concealed lighting and velvety carpet. They walked up to the first floor and Harn put his key into the lock of a white front door with his name on it and ushered her in, turning on the light as he went.

  He stood in the middle of a small, square hall. 'Lounge, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom,' he announced, indicating each door in turn. 'Take your pick.'

  She moved towards the bathroom. 'I'd like a wash,' she said, carefully avoiding looking at the bedroom door.

  'Right, I'll go and put the coffee on.'

  'I suppose we couldn't—' Gemma began. 'No, it doesn't matter.'

  'Of course it matters,' he said, suddenly sounding eager. 'Couldn't what?'

  'I was going to say I suppose we couldn't have tea instead of coffee,' Gemma said, and he burst into a roar of laughter.

  'Funny child, of course we could,' he said. And then, 'I tend to forget how very young you are.'

  She pushed open the bathroom door and went inside. What had her age to do with whether they had tea or coffee? she wondered, and then dismissed the question as unanswerable.

  It was a man's bathroom, all brown and tortoiseshell. Gemma opened the cupboard doors but couldn't see any trace of Yvonne. No French perfume, or skin lotions. No flimsy robe hanging behind the door. No lipstick on the towels. But of course, he wouldn't bring Yvonne here, no doubt she had a silken love-nest of her own somewhere, Gemma thought gloomily. Then she cheered up. Wherever it was, Harn wasn't with her in it tonight. He had worried about her—Gemma— however unlikely it seemed, and had come out specially to make sure she was all right, and that was marvellous.

  She swilled her hot cheeks and dried them on a fleecy golden-yellow towel that smelled of Harn's aftershave. There was a bottle of it on a glass shelf and she took off the stopper and had a good sniff, which gave her shivers down her back. Indeed, she would have to be careful, if she didn't want to end up as just one more on Harn's long list of discarded girl-friends. She just wished she hadn't drunk so much wine.

  She went out into the kitchen where Harn was lolling against a work-top, waiting for the kettle to boil. He looked wonderful, she thought, in black pants and a pink shirt that would make any other man look washed-out. There was nothing washed-out about this man, he was fabulous, and her heart gave a small leap and began to beat very quickly as he smiled at her, the curving dark lashes lifting at the corners.

  'Better?' he queried.

  'I'm fine now—the party got rather sticky.'

  'Ah!' he said. The kettle boiled and he poured water into a white china pot with green dragons on it. 'Not your kind of party?'

  'Not really,' she admitted. 'I wasn't enjoying it much. It was rather too—what's the word?— rather too anonymous, if you know what I mean.'

  He carried the tray into the lounge and put it on a low table beside a deep, buttoned velvet sofa, into which he sank, patting the place beside him.

  'Yes, I think I know what you mean. You're choosy about who you allow to take liberties.' His mouth quirked as he added, 'And very right and proper, too.'

  Gemma seated herself at the other end of the sofa. 'All right, so I'm a small town girl,' she said, with as much dignity as she could muster, 'and no doubt I'm naive and unsophisticated and I seem silly to you, but—yes, that's exactly how I feel about it.'

  Harn poured tea and pushed a cup along the table towards her. Then he leaned back in the corner of the sofa, crossing his long legs and resting one arm along the back, and studied her face in silence for so long that her mouth went dry and she had to take a long gulp of tea.

  At last he asked, 'What do you want out of life, Gemma? What did you hope to get out of coming to London?'

  'Experience,' she said promptly.

  'And you hoped I would provide that experience for you?'

  'Yes, I did,' she said seriously. 'I thought if I could make the grade as your secretary, if only for a short time, and train in the modern technology, then I should be in a good position to apply for any job, and not have to start at the bottom, as I should have done in the ordinary course. I want to be able to pay my way at home and help my sister, who's done so much for me all my life.'

  'Um.' He shook his head slowly. 'And was that the only kind of experience you hoped I'd provide?'

  Her eyes widened and she could feel the warmth rising to her cheeks, and was thankful for the soft, concealed lighting. 'Y-yes, of course,' she stammered. Then, gaining courage, and because she had to make this quite clear to him, just in case— she added, 'If you're thinking that I had ambitions to become one in your long line of discarded girlfriends' please forget it. The prospect doesn't appeal.'


  He turned his devilish look on her and the thick dark lashes swept his cheeks. 'Couldn't I persuade you if I really tried? If you want to be a London girl you'll have to learn the ways of the big bad city, you know, and I doubt if there are many virgins around of—what's your age?—nearly nineteen, isn't it?'

  He was making a joke of it, and that was a kind of relief. She laughed back and a dimple appeared in her right cheek. 'Then I'll just have to be in the minority, won't I?'

  He poured himself a second cup of tea. 'If you change your mind may I have the first refusal?'

  'Certainly, Mr Durrant,' she said gravely, and passed her cup to be refilled.

  As he passed it back their hands touched and she snatched her hand away, appalled at the sudden turmoil inside her.

  He put the cup down carefully and sat back in his corner, his eyes never leaving her face. There was a long silence while their eyes met and Gemma tried to look away but was totally unable to. At last, when the silence had become almost unbearable, Harn leaned forward and covered her hand with his. His fingers were dry and smooth and strong. 'Don't let's pretend it's not there, Gemma. It started way back in the office in Lessington. We seem to do something to each other, don't we? You want me as much as I want you, admit it.'

  Here it was, then—what she had dreaded and yet longed for, and she wasn't ready to make a choice. Not here, in this softly-lit apartment, with his fingers touching hers and promising so much more by their pressure.

  She drew a quivering breath. 'No, it's too soon and it's not right. I work for you, and don't they say you shouldn't mix business with pleasure—'

  'They say a lot of silly things,' he said, and moved towards her, his arm resting along the back of the sofa behind her, his other hand still clasping hers. He gave her time to move away, but she couldn't move an inch. Every nerve ending on her skin prickled with awareness; her whole body was alive and expectant. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, and it was fear and wonder.