'The deadline for applying for the handling contract was this Monday. I had no alternative other than to go ahead without your knowledge.'
Of course he'd had an alternative, Mike thought wryly, but he'd chosen to ignore it. She flicked a glance at his face, noting for the first time the lines of weariness etched around his eyes, indicative of lack of sleep. He must have virtually lived at the airport for the past fortnight to have achieved so much in such a short space of time, she realised, but refused to feel either sympathy or admiration. There had been no need for Luke to drive himself so hard. As far as she was concerned, Kingston Air had managed without the handling contract for the last twenty years and would undoubtedly have continued to do so for the next twenty if Luke hadn't intervened. But he'd glimpsed an opportunity to expand the airline and hadn't been able to resist the challenge. Her eyes moved over the hard, irregular male features, and rested briefly on the square, tenacious jaw. He was just like her father, a relentlessly ambitious workaholic who would never be satisfied with the status quo.
'When do we actually take over the handling, then?' she asked resignedly.
'At the beginning of next month.' He shrugged. 'There are a couple of minor details to iron out and then we should sign the agreement after the weekend, on Monday.'
'We?' Hope flared in Mike's eyes. So it wasn't a complete fait accompli after all. 'You mean now I'm no longer "incapacitated", you'll need my consent to finalise the legalities?'
'Yes,' he said shortly, and, stretching out a lean hand retrieved a file from a tray on the table.
'Terms and conditions of the contract,' he said laconically. 'I'd intended to give you this tomorrow when I came to London.' He passed the file across to her and rose to his feet. 'Perhaps you'd like to read it as soon as possible.'
Before she had time to register what was happening, Mike found herself being ushered from the room.
'Incidentally,' he murmured as they stood in the doorway, 'I've upgraded Jean Evans and made her responsible for the training of all new recruits. I assume that you don't have any objections?'
'It's a bit late if I --' Mike started and then her mouth snapped shut in disbelief as she found herself addressing a firmly closed door. She had been dismissed from her own office—no, thrown out might be a more apt description! Luke hadn't even suggested that she sit in on the interviews,' she realised incredulously—not that she had any strong inclinations to do so, she admitted honestly. Interviewing was a skill she had yet to acquire and she had no desire to make her first attempt at it under Luke's critical, watchful eyes.
She glanced down the corridor towards the hopeful candidates and her mouth curved in a sudden grin. A good-looking young man from the airport fire department was standing by the reception desk, talking animatedly to Tina. If Luke had been serious in his intention to stop casual callers wandering into the offices, he might have been better advised to have appointed a less attractive receptionist.
Slightly cheered up by the knowledge that Luke wasn't completely infallible, Mike walked towards the operations-room.
A scene of quiet, controlled activity met her eyes through the half-open door. Andrew Simpson was sitting behind a VDU screen, his fingers moving deftly over the keyboard as he transmitted a departure message on the last outbound aircraft; one of the duty officers was poring over a pile of paperwork, a frown of intense concentration on his face. Over in a corner the recently promoted senior girl was showing a newer member of staff how to fill in a property irregularity report, outlining the procedure for dealing with lost luggage should it arise. Totally absorbed in their tasks, no one noticed their silent observer.
Vividly Mike remembered the disorder that had greeted her on her last visit to the airport, recalled the general air of apathy that seemed to have pervaded the staff. The contrast between then and today couldn't have been more marked. In only two weeks, Luke had evidently made his impact. Kingston Air was operating as smoothly as when Matthew had been at the helm. Probably more so, Mike admitted grudgingly—the changes Luke had implemented were doubtless contributing to the airline's increased efficiency.
Abruptly, Mike turned and walked back down the corridor, clutching the file under her arm.
'If Mr Duncan wishes to contact me, I'll be at my home number,' she informed Tina crisply and continued out of the office door.
She smiled assuredly at the girls behind the check-in desk, exchanged pleasantries with one of the porters outside the terminal building, and called out a cheerful farewell to the car park attendant as she drove out of the airport. It wasn't until she was driving along the familiar country lanes towards Rakers' Moon that the mask slipped from her face and her eyes clouded dejectedly.
As she'd stood gazing into the operations-room, she'd suddenly felt like a complete outsider. She'd felt totally ineffectual, redundant, superfluous to all requirements. Her presence at the airport was so blatantly non-essential—Kingston Air was running like a well-oiled machine without her. On paper she might have equal status to Luke, but in practice it was he who had assumed command.
Nothing had turned out the way she'd planned it, Mike thought despondently. She'd come down to the airport prepared for battle, but Luke had neatly outmanoeuvred her every step of the way. He hadn't even had the courtesy to ask if she was fully recovered, she remembered bitterly.
Her eyes flicked quickly to the file lying on the seat beside her, containing all the details pertaining to the handling agreement. An agreement that she still had time to veto. Her eyes darkened thoughtfully. Wasn't it about time that Luke Duncan realised that he couldn't have everything his own way?
CHAPTER FOUR
Sighing, Mike tossed the closed file on to the coffee-table drawn up beside the armchair in which she was curled. She'd spent all afternoon and a large part of the evening scrutinising the contents of the file, determined to find some condition or clause in the carefully constructed agreement to which she could object, and she'd had to acknowledge defeat. Unwillingly, she was forced to accept that the acquisition of the handling contract had been an astute business move and that Luke had skilfully negotiated the best possible terms for Kingston Air.
Unfurling her long, jeans-clad legs, Mike rose to her feet and switched on the standard lamp behind her chair. Barefooted, she padded across the drawing-room to the windows, looked out into the gathering dusk and then drew the heavy russet curtains together. She'd lit the log fire earlier, more for comfort than warmth, and the flames cast mysterious, flickering shadows over the walls.
Motionless, Mike stared into the fire and finally admitted the unpalatable truth. She could offer no sound argument for rejecting the handling agreement, and if she vetoed it at this late stage she would be doing so for personal and not business reasons, allowing her resentment towards Luke to impair her judgement completely.
She pulled a rueful face, unconsciously running a hand through her rumpled red curls. Instead of indulging in a petty power struggle with Luke, she ought to be thinking about the long-term future of the airline. Luke wasn't going to be at the airport forever. She should swallow her pride and take advantage of his presence over the next few weeks or months to learn as much as she could from him, preparing herself for the day when she would be left in sole charge. She grimaced. The role of humble pupil was not one that greatly appealed, she thought gloomily.
She stifled a sudden yawn and glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. It was about time she prepared herself some supper, she supposed.
She walked down the long hall, flicking on lights as she went, and entered a large, square room, that, despite the installation of modern, time-saving equipment, still managed to retain the air of an old-fashioned, homely farmhouse kitchen. Without much enthusiasm, Mike contemplated the eggs and assortment of salad vegetables she'd earlier purchased from the farm shop down the lane. She'd have a more comprehensive shopping expedition tomorrow, she decided, fishing out an apron from a drawer and slipping it over her head to protect her cream ca
shmere jumper.
It wasn't until she had arrived at the empty house that morning that she'd remembered that John and his wife, the only residential staff, were under the impression that she wouldn't be moving down to Rakers' Moon until after the weekend as had been her original intention, and were taking a short holiday in Sussex, visiting their daughter.
'Scrambled or omelette?' Mike asked herself out loud as she cracked two eggs into a glass bowl and then grinned shamefacedly. It was the first time she'd ever been entirely alone in the huge old house and she was beginning to find the silence oppressive, the longing to hear another human voice disturbingly acute. She had become accustomed to the clatter of her half-brothers and sisters charging noisily around their London home, she decided, beating the eggs with a fork. It wasn't until this evening, either, that she'd realised just how isolated was Rakers' Moon. The darkness beyond the uncurtained kitchen window was absolute, unrelieved by any reassuring lights from close neighbours. Absently, Mike poured the contents of the bowl into a pan on the stove. Someone could come creeping up to the house, camouflaged by that shroud of blackness, and she wouldn't even know they were there until...
The glass bowl slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor as the peal of the doorbell echoed around the empty house. Furiously, Mike glared down at the fragments of glass. Anyone would think she was nervous...
She turned on the porch light and peered through the hall window, unashamed relief flooding through her as she recognised the tall figure standing on the doorstep.
'One-hour working day going to be the norm from now on?' Luke greeted her unceremoniously, walking uninvited into the hall.
Mike looked up at him calmly, determined not to bite. The grey suit, the tie loosened at the neck of his shirt, the dark shadow around his jaw made her suspect that he had come straight from the airport, but she refused to feel guilty. No one forced him to work such unnecessary long hours.
'I came home to read through the handling contract,' she informed him coolly, wishing that she hadn't forgotten to replace her shoes and remove the apron. It was a definite psychological disadvantage in any confrontation to be barefoot and clad in a plastic apron adorned with airborne pink and green elephants. 'Assuming the contents of the file you gave me were confidential,' she continued, 'I could hardly go and sit in the crew-room or staff canteen to read them.' Never would she admit to those feelings of inadequacy that had assailed her that morning and prompted her rapid departure from the airport. 'My office was already occupied, if you recall,' she added sweetly. She frowned, puzzled by the expression on Luke's face and then her own nostrils were assailed by the smell of burning.
'Oh, heavens, my scrambled eggs!' she yelped and sped down the hall to the kitchen.
She removed the pan from the stove and inspected the contents mournfully.
'Fending for yourself tonight, I see,' Luke drawled from the doorway, his eyes moving from the burnt, congealed mass in the saucepan to the fragments of broken glass strewn across the floor.
'I'm quite capable of...' Mike started tetchily and then paused. Why did she always assume that he was being derogatory, deliberately look for implied criticism in his every remark? She wasn't usually so touchy and sensitive. She'd never minded being teased about her shortcomings by her fellow engineers, and yet when she was with Luke she seemed to lose her sense of humour completely.
She gave a reluctant grin. 'I'm not the world's most proficient cook,' she admitted. She'd learned the basics at school but, having always lived in a household with a resident cook, had seldom needed to put those skills into practice.
Luke surveyed the remaining eggs on top of the refrigerator.
'My omelettes are the toast of Manhattan,' he murmured modestly.
'You must be very proud,' Mike returned gravely, her eyes dancing with amusement. She swept an arm in the direction of the stove. 'It's all yours,' she informed him generously.
'Bowl? Frying-pan?' he enquired, tossing his jacket over a pine stool and folding back the sleeves of his shirt.
'In the cupboard over there.' She was taken aback, hadn't expected him to take her flippant offer seriously, wasn't even certain that she wanted him to prepare their simple, communal supper.
Her forehead furrowed. What was Luke doing here anyway? He'd offered no real explanation for his unexpected visit. She somehow doubted that he'd driven all the way over here, tired and hungry after a long day, merely to accuse her of slacking!
'Where are you staying at the moment?' she asked with sudden curiosity, leaning back against the sink unit. 'At the Smuggler's Rest?'
He quirked an eyebrow at her. 'Didn't I tell?' he murmured infuriatingly. 'I'm your new neighbour. I've rented the farm cottage down the lane.'
'Oak Tree Cottage?' Mike exclaimed in disbelief. The cottage, the tree from which its name originated long since felled, was barely half a mile away from Rakers' Moon. No longer used to house farm labourers, it was let out to holiday-makers during the summer months, but usually remained empty in the winter. It had never occurred to her that the cottage was already occupied this early in the season... let alone that the tenant was Luke!
'Hadn't you better go and put some shoes on and pick up that glass before you cut your feet?'
He was giving her orders in her own home now, Mike observed with a mixture of amusement and rancour. Shrugging, she went to retrieve her sandals from the drawing-room, and, returning to the kitchen, crouched down on the tiled floor and began to collect the glass up in a dustpan, watching Luke from under her dark lashes as she did so.
Whistling softly under his breath, he looked relaxed and completely at ease as with controlled, economical movements he went around the kitchen collecting utensils.
'Ouch!' Mike looked at the blood oozing from her finger in exasperation. She ought to have been concentrating on her task instead of watching Luke. She walked quickly over to the sink and held her right hand under the running tap.
'Could you give me a plaster, please?' she addressed Luke over her shoulder. 'There should be some in the first-aid tin by the dresser:'
'Give me your hand,' he murmured, coming up behind her, and with unexpected gentleness he applied the plaster to her outstretched finger.
The physical contact between them was minimal, but Mike was appalled to discover that her pulse-rate seemed to have doubled. Her eyes were drawn to his hands, fascinated by the lean, supple fingers, the short, surgically clean nails.
'Thank you,' she murmured, her voice not quite .steady as he completed his administrations.
He didn't release her hand immediately but with great deliberation raised it to his mouth, touching the tip of her wounded finger with his lips.
'Occupational therapy?' Mike enquired drily, her heart-hammering so loudly that she was sure he would hear it. Ye gods, she'd never realised just how erogenous was the sensitive skin at the end of her fingers.
'We may as well eat in the drawing-room,' she murmured casually, moving away from him, and busied herself preparing two trays, willing her erratic heartbeat to return to normal. The imaginary menace lurking out in the darkness now seemed laughable. The threat to her peace of mind was much closer at hand.
The omelette was excellent, Mike admitted, nursing her empty plate on her lap. Not that she had doubted for a second that it would be. Luke, she was certain, wasn't a man given to idle boasts, even those made in jest.
Her eyes drifted across the room to where he was sitting on the sofa in front of the fire, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his arms folded with deceptive indolence across his chest. The flickering flames threw shadows across the planes of his face, the glow from the single lamp softening the craggy contours.
He turned his head and smiled across at her. Mike's stomach muscles contracted involuntarily. That unexpected slow, lazy smile still managed to catch her off guard.
'What's your verdict? On the handling agreement?' he added, the teasing note in the deep voice making her suspect that he had been
aware of her intense scrutiny.
'The terms seem acceptable enough,' she answered, her voice as expressionless as her face. It was churlish of her not to sound more enthusiastic, she admitted. After all his hard work, she could have at least congratulated him on his success.
'So we can go ahead with formalities on Monday?'
'Why not?' She shrugged. She saw the sudden gleam in his dark eyes and had the uncomfortable feeling that he had guessed at the inner battle she'd raged with herself all afternoon. Was she that transparent? she wondered uneasily. 'How did the interviews go?' Quickly she moved on to a safer topic of conversation.
'One girl seems suitable. She's had previous airline experience which is a decided advantage.' He paused. 'Would you like her to come back for a second interview so you can meet her?'
'No.' It would be a waste of time, but she was gratified that he'd made the suggestion, hadn't simply gone ahead and made the appointment without consulting her first. 'I trust your judgement,' she said lightly, making her own peace-offering.
'We're going to need at least three more staff,' he murmured. 'Perhaps you could contact the agency tomorrow and arrange some further interviews for next week? Oh, and remind Tina to send off letters to the unsuccessful candidates.' He crossed one leg casually over a knee, his trousers tautening along the line of his muscular thighs. 'And could you chase up Stantons? Reservations are running low on domestic tickets.'
'Anything else?' Mike asked drily, resisting the temptation to touch a forelock. It was quite obvious now why Luke had called in this evening—to give her a list of orders for tomorrow. He was treating her as little more than his assistant, she realised with growing exasperation.
'One other thing,' he continued smoothly. 'I think we ought to call a meeting of the senior staff as soon as possible and fill them in on the handling contract. Could you try and organise it for tomorrow evening? About seven, after the last outbound flight. I should be back from London by then.'
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