"You'd do well not to open these windows," he remarked. "It's unusually hot for this time of the year."
"It isn't the heat I mind," she answered, "as much as the humidity. I'm as sticky now as when I left the plane." She walked to her bedroom door. "I'll get my notebook."
"You're not going to lock it after all ?"
It took her a few seconds to understand his question, and she reddened beneath the mockery of his expression.
"I don't think you're the sort of man to mix business with pleasure," she said composedly.
"You're darn right."
When she returned to the sitting-room he was on the settee, the table in front of him covered with papers.
"That's more like it," she said involuntarily.
He looked up. "More like what?"
"More like I expect you to look."
"You really do see me as an automaton, don't you?"
Feeling she had said more than she should, Philippa opened her notebook. The man laughed and she raised her head and stared at him.
"What's amusing you?"
"You are. You've been my secretary for I don't know how long, and today's the first time I've found out you're human."
"I'm sorry," she said stiffly. "Being here with you - in this atmosphere - makes it difficult for me to -"
"Don't apologise, Miss Smith. It's a relief to find you can be quick-tempered. Until now I've always regarded you as a paragon!"
Silently she looked at the tip of her pencil and, after a momentary pause, he began to dictate the memorandum he had been working on during their flight. He spoke without cessation for more than an hour, and it was with a sense of relief that she heard him slap a sheaf of papers down.
"That's the lot for the moment," he announced. "We'll break for lunch."
"Where do eat?"
"In the restaurant. But you can have it in your room if you prefer."
"I'd much rather go downstairs."
"Then stop arguing."
Resisting an urge to hit him, she followed him to the elevator thence to a glass-walled patio set with small tables, each one massed with flowers. "We can lunch by the pool if you prefer," he said, "though personally I think it's cooler here."
"You're the boss," she said, and was pleased when she saw his eyes flicker though he held a chair out for her without any comment.
Philippa's fear that her lunch would be a continuation of her work - when they shared a coffee break in London Lucas Paget had a habit of bombarding her with questions - was not fulfilled during their first lunch together. The moment the menus were set before them he deliberately switched the conversation to Brazil. It was a country he had visited before and knew well, and she listened avidly as he described his experiences when he had accompanied friends on a cruise up the Amazon.
"It's not the sort of jaunt a woman would like," she commented. "Even an air-conditioned boat can't stop the mosquitoes and heat."
"We had two women with us who didn't mind." His tone was abrupt. "Women will go anywhere and do anything if they can see marriage at the end of it."
Philippa felt her irritation rise. "You don't have much of an opinion of my sex, do you ? What makes you so cynical about us ?"
"Experience." The word was brief and telling, and, though she longed to hear more she knew it would be undiplomatic to say so.
Reading her silence correctly, he said: "Would you like me to order for you ?"
Without waiting for her confirmation, he proceeded to do so, commanding the waiter in fluent Portuguese.
"I hope you like what I've chosen?" he said, putting down the menu.
"If I didn't, I wouldn't dare say so!"
He leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes. It was a look she had seen on his face many times before: quizzical and amused. "Do I take it you find me an ogre ?"
"Not at all. I've merely worked for you long enough to know you don't like anyone arguing with you."
"In business perhaps. Not in my private life."
"I didn't know you had a private life." Again her tongue had run away with her and, mortified, she lowered her head. Only as she heard his chuckle did she know she had not offended him.
"I have a very active private life, Miss Smith, but I keep it private. You probably know more about my affairs than anyone else."
Remembering the many women to whom she had sent huge flacons of perfume and flowers, she thought his use of the word "affair" completely appropriate.
"I'm surprised you aren't married," she commented.
"Wouldn't you find a wife useful as a hostess?"
"Unfortunately, women aren't satisfied just to remain a hostess. Once you're married they start wanting to run your life."
"I can't see you allowing anyone to do that."
"I won't. That's why I'm still a bachelor."
"But wouldn't you like a home - a family?"
"I don't live in a tent!"
"I know, but-"
"My business is all the family I need. I find it stimulating, satisfying and never boring. If you can find me a wife who'd fulfil all those requirements, I might consider giving up my freedom."
"You want the impossible," she protested, and was relieved when the waiter set a steaming bowl of con chowder before her.
"Saved by the soup," her employer murmured, and once more she was uncomfortably aware of his ability to read her thoughts.
Throughout the rest of their meal the conversation was impersonal, and as soon as coffee had been set in front of them he drank his at a gulp and stood up. "Don't let me rush you, Miss Smith. There's no reason why you can't sit here a while and watch the people. But I've an appointment with the Minister and I don't want to be late for it."
Annoyed with herself for not having looked at the appointments book earlier, she blushed. "I'm sorry. I should have reminded you."
"Forget it. As I said earlier, I'm glad even the perfect secretary isn't perfect the whole time."
Though his reply was humorous there was a distant look in his eyes that told her his thoughts were already racing ahead to his meeting. So would it always be with him; business would always come before any personal life.
She rose. "I don't think I'll stay down here alone."
"As you wish."
He preceded her from the restaurant and back to their suite. She was busy at her typewriter when he left, and for the rest of the afternoon remained there.
Without her being aware of it dusk fell with the suddenness of the tropics. One moment the sky was a limpid blue, the next it was purple velvet dimpled with diamond stars.
She pushed back her chair and went to the window. The lights along the curving bay glittered like a jewelled necklace around the white throat of the sand, while the sea, dark and mysterious, broke into frothy waves along its edge. For a moment she toyed with the idea of a long, cool drink on the hotel terrace, but the thought of the barrage of eyes she would have to pass in the hotel lobby dissuaded her, and with a sigh and a yawn she went back to her typewriter.
She was still working when Lucas Paget returned. For once he looked tired and dishevelled, and he shrugged off his jacket and loosened his tie as he came over to the desk and picked up some of the typescript. His silk shirt clung to his broad chest and the spattering of dark hairs on it was visible through the material. She averted her eyes, disconcerted at the intimate picture of him that flashed into her mind.
His tiredness, instead of ageing him, made him look vulnerable, and impulsively she went over to the tray of drinks on the sideboard and poured him a whisky and soda.
Gratefully he took it and, with a sheaf of papers still in his hand, sank down in a chair and began to read. She wanted to pull the pages from his hand and tell him to relax, and was annoyed with herself for feeling this way. Deliberately she turned her back on him and sat down at the typewriter.
"For heaven's sake don't do any more work." His voice, usually deep and quick, had slowed almost to a slur. "Relax and have a drink."
Quietly she complied and, came to sit opposite him, saw he had fallen asleep. Gently she removed the tumbler that lay half tilted against the arm of the chair and lifted the papers from his lap. In sleep he looked completely different, with a defencelessness she had never associated with him. Eyes might be the mirror of the soul, she thought, but closed lids were the subconscious. So must he have looked as a child: eager, intelligent and impulsive, with a gentleness now seen in the softened line of the mouth and the unexpected fall of hair across his forehead. What a beautiful colour it was: warm brown with the merest hint of red. It had probably been even redder when he was a boy.
With a suddenness that took her by surprise, his lids lifted and eyes, grey and searching, stared into hers. He sat up. "I must have fallen asleep. I'm sorry."
"I wish you'd slept longer. You look as if you need it."
"I didn't come here to sleep but to get a contract."
"How did your meeting with the Minister go ?"
"Quite well, I think. Manoel Rodriguez's an unusual man. One of the few honest politicians I know, No one's going to fast-talk him into giving them the contract. He's looking for the best firm at the lowest price."
"That should be us," she said with conviction.
"I'm not sure. There's a Brazilian firm competing - Callisto's - they've earned themselves a reputation for quick, fast work at rock-bottom prices. And they've never been late on a completion date either!"
"That doesn't sound very Brazilian," she said drily.
"Callisto's is run by a European. A man called Masterson: tough, fast-talking and, from what I've heard, unscrupulous."
"If Masterson were working for us you wouldn't have used the word 'unscrupulous'. You'd have said 'keen'."
He did not smile and she vowed not to be funny when they were talking business.
"So Callisto's are our main competitor?" she asked.
He nodded. "The one thing I can't understand is how they've got their price so low. Rodriguez told me it was nearly twenty per cent less than ours - which means it was probably fifteen per cent less."
"We can't cut our costs any more. They're already down to rock-bottom."
"We'll have to get them lower." He walked over to the desk and began rummaging among the papers. "Where are the duplicates of the prices we quoted?"
She hurried over to him and from a drawer took out a folder marked Confidential. She started to untie it but impatiently he reached out and snapped the red ribbon open. Their fingers touched and she drew back as though she had unexpectedly touched ice. Or was it fire, perhaps ?
"I'll go over these again later," he said. "I'm too tired now."
"Why don't you lie down for a while?"
"Don't tell me what to do!" He spoke with such savagery that she was taken aback. "I'm sorry, Miss Smith, but I have a phobia about bossy women." His tone was back to normal. "It's probably the result of an over-zealous mother. But I'm sorry if I've offended you. Your advice and opinion is always welcome - in business."
She put the cover on the typewriter. "If there's anything else you want me to do…" she asked without tinning round.
"Nothing, thanks."
Behind her she heard the click of his bedroom door. Only then did she go to her own room, surprised to find her legs shaking.
She sat on the bed, feeling self-pity override her earlier excitement. In an effort to overcome it she tried to analyse it away. Was it because she was faced with an evening alone? Yet many times she had refused invitations to go out because she had felt the need to be by herself.
Tonight was different, of course, for she was in a foreign country, among strangers.
"I'm getting maudlin," she said aloud. After all, Lucas Paget was no stranger. She had worked closely with him for six months. Yet she knew she was not being truthful with herself. Her employer was more of a stranger now than he had ever been. The few intimate moments between them today had only heightened the difference between them; made her aware of the gulf between efficient secretary and high-powered tycoon.
Angry at where her thoughts were leading her, and afraid that if she followed them she would be unable to withdraw, she slipped off her dress and lay on the bed to rest.
An hour later, her body wrapped in an apricot silk dressing-gown - a present from Mrs. Marsh - that clung to every line of her figure, she opened her windows and stepped on to the balcony. It was still extremely warm, though a faint breeze lifted the hair from the nape of her neck. Usually she pinned it back from her face but it now fell thick and straight to her shoulders. Below her somebody whistled and, aware she was silhouetted against the light from her room, she hastily went inside.
The evening stretched ahead of her, with dinner only taking up a small part of it. She had nothing to read and she thought wistfully of the books she had meant to bring with her but had forgotten in the rush of getting ready. Were there any books in the living-room? she wondered, and tried to remember if she had seen any, then moved across to the door and listened. There was no sound on the other side and she turned the handle and stepped quickly in.
The door to Lucas's bedroom was shut and she tiptoed across to the bookcase. Everything was in Portuguese and despondently she swung round, stopping with a gasp as she saw Lucas Paget directly behind her. His face was flushed from sleep and a navy silk dressing-gown was tied loosely at his waist.
For a moment he looked at her, and conscious that she was wearing nothing beneath her dressing- gown, she clasped it closely, Only as she did so and glimpsed her reflection in the glass door of the bookcase, did she realise that by drawing the silk tighter she was revealing more. With burning cheeks she hurried across to her room.
"I didn't realise you were in here," he said behind her.
"I was looking for something to read." Half hidden by her door, she felt it safe to turn.
"I'm afraid I can't help you. I don't read fiction."
"You read the Business Journal!"
His eyes gleamed. "I never realised what a sharp tongue you have. If you're not too tired I'll take you out to dinner and give it something to chew on!"
"That's very kind of you, but -"
"I'm not taking pity on you. I'm at a loose end and bored. I'm also too tired to work any more. Be ready in half an hour."
"In half an hour," she repeated, and closed her door. .
Had any woman received such a surly invitation to dinner? she pondered as she applied her make-up and combed her hair back into its usual style. Somehow she could not imagine him proffering such an invitation to Blanche Green.
"But I'm not a musical star," she told herself firmly. "I'm his super-efficient secretary and nothing more."
But it was difficult to remember this when she sat across the table from him in a small but elegant restaurant whose windows overlooked a beach blanched white by the moonlight.
Once again Lucas Paget had ordered the meal for her: pancakes filled with lobster and smothered in sour cream, and a spicy dish of green peppers and beef, washed down with Burgundy.
"No more wine for me," she said as a waiter went to fill her glass for the third time. "One more sip and I'll be under the table!"
"I'm glad you know when to stop," he said incisively. "I dislike drunken men, but I dislike drunken women even more."
"Do you object to women smoking?" she asked blandly.
"Of course I don't object to women smoking. Why should I?"
"Only that I think you like women kept in their place."
"The home and kitchen, you mean?'
"Yes."
He chuckled. "I do - so long as it's not my home!"
Once again she had unwittingly brought the subject on to a personal level, and she changed it quickly. "Have you been to this restaurant before?"
"Yes. They usually have fado singing here - that's Portuguese folk-songs - but the waiter told me their singer's ill tonight, so we'll have to come here again."
"Fados are always sad, aren't they?"
He nodded. "
They're about lovers who were killed in battle or lost at sea."
Philippa felt as though Roland were near her, Yet the Roland she had loved had never existed outside her imagination. She was not aware she had sighed until Lucas Paget pushed back his chair and stood up.
"When a woman sighs in my company, I can tell I'm boring her!"
"That's not true." She stopped, realising he was teasing her. "Not bored. Just realising what a long way I am from home."
"I never expected the super-efficient Miss Smith to be homesick."
"You don't know me very well."
He took her coat, which the waiter was holding out, and dropped it round her shoulders. It was the second time today that she had felt the touch of his fingers and she trembled, aware of his closeness and the warmth that emanated from him.
Even sitting next to him in the car she was even more aware of his nearness, and knew a pang of excitement as, instead of heading towards the hotel, he made for the road that led up into the hills.
"I thought we'd take a drive before going back to the hotel," he explained. "Driving at night always relaxes me. That's why I sent the chauffeur home."
Again his words reminded her of Roland, for he had also found it relaxing to drive. "Someone I once knew said driving always gave him a sense of power."
"He must have been very young."
"What do you mean?"
"Only young men - or weak ones - need that sort of illusion to give them strength."
"He was weak," she admitted, "but he was always kind to me and never arrogant."
"Do I detect a note of criticism in that remark?"
She stared at her hands, nonplussed. "I'm sorry, Mr. Paget, I'd never dream of criticising you."
He concentrated on the road in front of him and she inched closer to the window and half turned. In the light from the dashboard the contours of his face seemed harsh and fieshless. "Like a death's head," she thought, and shivered, suddenly seeing him as a stranger; a man whose whole way of life and thinking was alien to hers. What did he know of love or the loss of it, when all he cared for was another contract, another increase in turnover? To love a man like him would lead to heartbreak unless one were prepared to take a secondary role in his life and to accept that business came first.
Rachel Lindsay - Brazillian Affair Page 2