‘But I only kiss oddballs,’ she reminded him blandly.
He laughed aloud. ‘I said you must have dated some oddballs,’ he corrected. ‘Anyway, that’s about to change.’
She did not rise to that. ‘Did you ring me at six in the morning to discuss my dating habits?’
The red boarding message began to blink, indicating urgency. Kosta turned his back on it.
‘I thought you might be embarrassed about the land slippage in your corridor last night. Just wanted to let you know you can forget it.’
‘What?’
‘You—er—we kicked over a big flower arrangement. I got the porters to deal with it.’
There was a pause while she digested it. Kosta listened to the silence with amused appreciation. Working from home, Annis would know the porters very well, he thought. They would always be taking in parcels for her or arranging courier services. They had found the flower vase disaster very funny. Annis was acute enough to realise that—and to foresee that she would have to run the gauntlet of that amusement every time she passed them.
‘I hope it cost you an arm and a leg,’ she said at last between her teeth.
‘Worth every penny,’ said Kosta wickedly. ‘At least it means you won’t forget me.’
‘Not much chance of that.’
‘I’m glad you recognise it.’ And before she could answer, he said, ‘I’m going to give you my private number in New York. Nobody has it at the office, so write it down.’
She did.
‘But why give it to me?’ she muttered through the pen top in her mouth.
‘They can use e-mail. You may want to talk more urgently than that.’
‘I won’t,’ she said positively.
Kosta gave a soft laugh. ‘I thought you were going to be professional about this? You can’t let our chemistry get in the way of your doing a good job.’
She did that little indrawn breath trick again. He could hear her thinking, Chemistry! His body stirred. He could have groaned aloud.
‘Go back to bed.’
‘Thank you,’ said Annis with heavy irony. ‘I’ll see you on Monday.’
‘You’ll see me before that.’
In her chill bedroom, Annis felt the heat snake down her spine. Was he doing it deliberately or was it all in her imagination?
She said, ‘But I didn’t think you were getting back until Saturday.’
There was another pause. Chemistry, she thought. Her legs were trembling with remembered lust.
Then he said, shocked, ‘You mean you won’t be available on Saturday? Surely you’re not a five-days-a-week sort of person? I thought consultants had to be flexible.’
There was a musical bing-bong in the background followed by an amplified voice.
‘I’ve got to go. They’re calling me. See you soon.’
He cut the connection before Annis had time to answer.
Just as well, really. She had no idea what to say. Except that she had no intention of seeing him again. And that was clearly pointless. Until this job was done, she would have to see him, no matter how much she disliked him and the provocation he seemed to think he was entitled to hand out.
So the job had better be done fast.
Accordingly, she worked eighteen hours that day. The staff at Vitale’s were surprisingly co-operative. They dropped what they were doing to talk to her, worked through lunch, brought her coffee, dropped into her office when struck with sudden inspiration and indicated that they were quite happy to stay as late as she wanted.
‘Why are you so good to me?’ said Annis, bemused. Middle management was suspicious of management consultants in her experience.
‘Kosta told us to be,’ said the senior draughtsman simply.
One of the young architects was more revealing.
‘The place is a shambles,’ he said, leaning confidentially on a big photocopier. ‘Kosta’s fantastic, of course. And some of the commissions are amazing. But you’re always screaming down the phone at someone to deliver something you need like yesterday.’
The architects thought it was the draughtsmen’s fault. The draughtsmen thought it was the computer guys’ who thought it was the assistants’. Absolutely nobody was blaming Konstantin Vitale. He was their guru.
Tracy explained. Even she thought the boss was fantastic, but she was at the end of the food chain and most of the problems ended up composting on her receptionist’s desk.
‘No one will do anything unless Kosta thinks of it first,’ she told Annis. ‘Even the roof—’
She took Annis to the attics of the old house. There were big damp patches on the walls.
‘We’re an architects’ practice and we can’t keep our own roof dry,’ said Tracy bitterly.
Annis looked at it. ‘Couldn’t you get estimates?’
‘Of course I could. One of the boys could go out there and see what’s wrong and draw up the specs. But—’
But Kosta had not focused on it. So nobody else did either.
‘What does Kosta focus on?’ Annis said grimly. ‘Show me the e-mails he sent and received last month.’
Tracy looked appalled. ‘All last month’s e-mails?’
Annis knew then. But she still ploughed through the messages conscientiously. The exercise also told her a lot more about the way he ran his private life than she wanted to know.
‘When does the man stop?’ she exclaimed in exasperation on Friday afternoon.
Tracy had just brought her a double latte from the wonderful American coffee shop on the corner. She grinned in sympathy. ‘No one can keep up with him,’ she said fondly.
Annis snorted. ‘Sensible of them. It’s a wonder to me how he ever gets anything done. Look at this.’ She stabbed angrily at the computer screen. ‘Breakfast at the Savoy with Arlandetti; planning meeting in the City; site consultation with Carews; lunch with Melissa; evidence to the Select Committee at the House of Commons; meeting blah, blah; another meeting. Private view with Melissa. Dinner with the International Association of blah. And that’s just one day.’ She gave a snort of real exasperation. ‘When on earth does he design anything? That’s what they pay him for, isn’t it? Designing buildings?’
‘He goes away,’ said Tracy simply. ‘He’s got a place in Italy somewhere. He just takes off.’
‘If he managed his time better he wouldn’t need to,’ muttered Annis. ‘Who’s Melissa?’
‘Who?’ Tracy peered at the screen. ‘Oh, her. She was a lawyer, I think.’
‘Was?’
Tracy grinned. ‘Last month’s e-mail,’ she pointed out.
Annis blinked. ‘You mean he dates a new woman every month? I don’t believe it.’
Tracy looked uncomfortable.
‘You don’t have to answer that,’ Annis said swiftly. ‘I shouldn’t have asked. Sorry.’
Tracy nodded, relieved and left. Annis spun her chair—Konstantin’s chair—round and stared out of the window into the late autumn sun. Even the dirty windows could not hide the golden leaves of the tree in the street outside. Did he ever just stop and look at that tree? Annis wondered. Or was he always too busy setting up the next month’s social calendar?
It was all there in the e-mails, she thought. The course of a doomed love affair recorded for any clerk who wanted to print it off. Melissa had tried to be discreet, but being pursued by Konstantin Vitale had clearly been a heady business.
When he’d first met her, she had been constantly mailing him in delighted amazement. Flowers! A surprise trip to Paris. Phone calls at crazy times.
Annis had blushed when she’d read that. Fortunately she’d been alone.
He seemed to be single-minded. Whether he was chasing a contract or a woman. He threw everything into it; the e-mails flew. And as soon as his quarry gave in he could hardly be bothered to return their messages.
Annis doodled a mouse on her notepad.
Once they were nicely pliant, the clients got delegated to one of his assistants. Melissa—and presumably her
predecessors—was left firing off increasingly bewildered messages into the ether. The only thing he didn’t seem to lose interest in was the buildings themselves.
Annis concentrated on feathering in whiskers.
Did he always lose interest in his women?
Presumably the answer was yes. If even Tracy, who thought he was second cousin to God, admitted that the e-mails showed another month, another girlfriend.
Annis gave her mouse a Van Dyck beard and a haughty expression.
She had actually, and ever so casually, asked Tracy. ‘Do they lose interest in him?’
Tracy had shaken her head. ‘Kosta wouldn’t mind.’
They’d looked at each other with deep understanding. They’d both known that what she’d meant was, Kosta wouldn’t care. They’d both shivered.
Tracy had said, ‘Sometimes, I feel really sorry for them, you know? He just stops calling and they don’t know why.’
‘I can imagine,’ Annis had said.
And the trouble was she could.
Forewarned is fore armed, she thought, and went back to work.
By the time she crawled into bed on Friday night she had put another thirty hours on the clock. Her shoulders were stiff and she had had to keep narrowing her eyes to bring the computer screen into focus, but she was quietly pleased with herself.
She knew what was wrong with Vitale and Partners. What was more, so did half the staff. The half that weren’t mesmerised by Konstantin Vitale. She was going to enjoy putting that into the report, thought Annis, polishing phrases in her head.
Her work schedule had got in the way of her personal life. There were lots of messages from friends and family. She had not replied to any of them for a week.
Her father was understanding to the point of positive approval when she didn’t return messages immediately. Her friends, including, Bella were philosophical. But Lynda was put out and Alex de Witt, calling to arrange to meet after his play, downright irritated.
She dealt with them all on Saturday morning. Alex said he would leave a ticket for her at the box office and tell the stage door staff that she was coming round afterwards.
‘Great,’ said Annis, hiding a sinking heart at the thought of a long dinner with a hyped up actor who would regard midnight as the middle of the working day. ‘I look forward to it.’
Lynda was a lot less amenable.
‘I’ve been talking to Bella. What are you wearing?’ Annis was startled. She looked down at herself. ‘Sweat pants, tee shirt, trainers,’ she said literally.
Lynda made an exasperated noise. ‘I mean tonight.’
‘Tonight?’ Annis knotted her brow in thought. Tonight was several thousand words of report away. She had not begun to think about tonight yet. ‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘For dinner with Alexander.’
‘Oh,’ said Annis, understanding at last. ‘Operation Get Annis Out More.’
‘Well?’
It was easier to answer than argue. ‘I’m not sure. Black?’ she suggested hazily.
Lynda snorted. ‘Designer black dinner jacket, yes. Dull office black suit, no.’
‘Oh, come on, Lynda. You know I don’t have a designer dinner jacket in my wardrobe.’
‘Then get one.’
‘No time,’ said Annis truthfully.
She made a note in the margin of the stuff she was reading and took a bite out of her breakfast toast and marmalade.
‘You can be so awkward,’ complained Lynda. ‘Do you know how many dinner parties I had to give to get you and Alexander de Witt there at the same time?’
‘Well, you like giving parties,’ said Annis, unimpressed. And then she heard what Lynda had said. The toast fell out of her hand. ‘Me and Alex?’
‘I know you don’t like matchmaking. But if I can’t introduce people I like to each other, what’s the point of having a dinner table?’
‘You wanted me to go out with Alex de Witt?’
‘I wanted you to have some fun,’ corrected Lynda complacently.
‘But I thought—’
I thought you were throwing Konstantin Vitale at me. I thought he knew it. I thought he had signed up to taking out the millionaire’s daughter. That’s why I stamped all over him that first night. Or tried to, telling him I didn’t date as if I thought he was going to make a pass at me.
‘Don’t think. Just go. Only not to The Ivy in sweat pants and trainers. Grubby sweat pants,’ said Lynda forcefully. ‘Buy yourself a new outfit for once. Live a little.’
‘If I have time,’ promised Annis. She still felt winded.
And with that Lynda had to be content.
It took Annis an hour of power walking through the falling leaves in the park before she had restored her equilibrium enough to go back to the report.
What a fool he must have thought her at that dinner party! What a vain, arrogant fool! Why on earth had he bothered with her at all? All right, he needed her professional services, but Konstantin Vitale was not the sort of man to admit that he needed anything. And he certainly didn’t know how badly managed his company was. Yet. So why had he called her in?
But she knew the answer to that, didn’t she? If his early-morning call from the airport hadn’t told her, those revealing e-mails would have done. He’s interested as long as his quarry isn’t, she thought.
And she had told him in no uncertain terms that she was not interested, hadn’t she? Heaven help her, she had done exactly the reverse of what she should have done if she’d wanted to keep Konstantin Vitale at arm’s length. She had presented him with an intriguing problem.
Annis went back to the flat and worked as if her life depended on it. She finished the first draft of the hard-hitting report about four o’clock. Outside, the light was already going. Annis sent the document to print and stood up, stretching.
She was pleased. Thinking of Konstantin’s face when he read it had inspired her. The words had just rolled out across the screen in a torrent. She would collate the tables and workflow graph tomorrow but she knew that would hardly take any time at all.
So now on to the next problem, Annis thought. She could afford to take a self-indulgent hour to wash her hair and have a bath. Maybe even paint her nails. But Lynda was right—she did not have anything suitable to wear.
Annis grinned, taking an executive decision. She hated shopping and seldom went anywhere she had to look glamorous. So in the last few months she had adopted a survival strategy that would have horrified Lynda.
The Larsens lived three floors down from her flat. Gillie had the wardrobe of a successful businessman’s wife. She and Annis were the same size.
Annis picked up the phone.
‘Hi, Gillie. I’m on the scrounge. I’ve got to do an after theatre dinner with Alex de Witt and Lynda’s worried I might let the side down.’
‘Come on down,’ said Gillie, entertained.
Annis shoved her key in the pocket of her sweat pants and galloped down the carpeted staircase. The Larsens’ door stood open. Gillie was already standing in the sitting room with a couple of garments on hangers.
‘I thought you’d be in a hurry,’ she said in self-congratulatory tones. ‘I thought the little black dress and a really exotic shawl. There’s a pashmina and a Thai silk print. Take what you want.’
‘Thanks,’ said Annis, taking the clothes and making for the door again.
Gillie followed her. ‘Alex de Witt? Lynda will be opening the champagne.’
Annis paused. She had forgotten Gillie had been at that dinner party. She pulled a face.
‘So I realised today. I thought she’d set me up with someone else.’
Gillie was disbelieving. ‘Really? Who else would you look at if the gorgeous Alex was around?’
‘Oh, believe me, the other one is an alpha class woman magnet. Horribly intelligent, bags of charm, all the sex appeal in the world and a tongue like a laser.’
‘Wow.’ Gillie looked at her friend speculatively. ‘So why are you going out
with Alex de Witt?’
Annis shifted uncomfortably on the spot. She was not really sure of the answer.
‘I’m not going to go out with him a lot,’ she said defensively. ‘Just a couple of dinners to get Lynda off my back.’
Gillie raised her eyebrows. ‘And where does the laser tongued sex god go?’ she said, amused.
Annis permitted herself a small smile. ‘I give him a report that says he’s the worst manager in the world. And I never see him again,’ she said with satisfaction.
She pounded off up the stairs, leaving Gillie open-mouthed.
The little black dress had a designer label and the Thai-silk shawl had a cheerful rainbow dragon climbing all over it. Annis blinked a bit and then shrugged.
‘What the heck. In for a penny in for a pound.’
She rang the porters. ‘Can you order me a taxi? I want to go into the West End.’
‘Sure.’ It was the younger porter, the one she suspected of being a poet in his spare time. ‘Any more trouble with the flower arrangement?’ He did not sound very poetical. There was a distinct snigger in his voice.
‘It’s fine, thank you,’ said Annis frostily.
Gillie had lent her a soft wool cape as well. Annis settled the collar and realised with a sigh that her hair needed cutting again. She clipped it back, pausing only to flick the concealing wave forward over her scar, settled the cape round her shoulders and went downstairs.
The porter had come out from behind his desk. He was looking out through the glass doors and shaking his head gloomily.
‘No taxis for forty minutes. It’s the rain. I’d go into Kensington High Street and flag one down but I’ve got to wait for old Mr Henderson to come back.’
Their fellow resident was wheelchair-bound and needed assistance to negotiate ramps. Annis pulled a face.
‘It’s going to be that sort of evening,’ she said resignedly. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll go and see if I can find one.’
She did, spurning the part-time poet’s offer of an umbrella, on the grounds that she would leave it somewhere. Huddling Gillie’s deep collar round her cold cheeks, she ran down the private road, cursing all stepmothers, theatre and social life in general.
A long grey car had stopped at the barrier entrance to the block. Annis hurried past it without interest. And then she heard the quiet hiss of a super-efficient mechanism and the rear window lowered.
The Millionaire's Daughter (The Carew Stepsisters Book 1) Page 8