Duel of Desire
By
Charlotte Lamb
Contents
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1
April was ending, as it had begun, with showers that came without warning from a clear blue sky, and people carried umbrellas under their arms in precaution, opening them hurriedly as rain splattered suddenly and a dark cloud passed overhead. Deborah had paused to admire the windowboxes of the bank, gay with scarlet tulips whose waxen petals and bright colours were almost artificial in their regularity. Now she hurried on, quickening her steps toward the plate-glass exterior of her office block two doors away. The pavements were thronged with people. Sleek limousines edged their way along between dark strings of taxis who, for all their bulk, manoeuvred briskly in and out of the traffic jam which was building up. Bond Street lay just around the corner and at nine-thirty on a weekday morning the streets of this part of London were crowded.
As Deborah approached the commissionaire saluted, his white-gloved hand rising smartly in a military movement, his dark uniform enriched with gold braid. Wealthy companies inhabited the tall block behind him, and security was tight. He knew most of the employees who worked there by sight, some of them by name. The electronically controlled doors were operated from the foyer by a young woman seated at a desk. Deborah moved forward as there was a buzz and the doors slid open.
'Terrible weather, Miss Portman,' the girl said chattily, without bothering to glance at Deborah's proffered security pass.
'Let's hope it will clear before lunch,' said Deborah, walking towards the lift.
She had worked there since leaving school and was well known by sight. The receptionist watched her enviously. Deborah Portman's job required that she look elegant, and the other girl wondered how she contrived to make a simple black dress look as if it had been made in Paris. Over it she wore a short black jacket which swung from her slender hips as she walked. Tall, for a girl, she had the fine-boned build of a model, her oval face framed in smooth ash-blonde hair, worn in classical purity, swathed in a smooth chignon. It was no wonder, the receptionist thought dreamily, that Alex St James had chosen her as his personal assistant. No doubt her looks had got her the job.
In the lift Deborah was thinking ahead to the work she had to get through. She frowned, remembering that Alex would be back from a flying visit to Stockholm. She always found it easier to work when he was absent. Emerging into a blue-carpeted corridor, her footsteps silenced by the depth of the pile, she passed steel-framed prints of eighteenth-century London life which familiarity had rendered invisible to her. She pushed open the heavy plate-glass doors which bore the name ST JAMES MUSIC printed on them in large gilt letters, passed through the small reception area, smiling at the young receptionist, and crossed into the open-plan office beyond. Half a dozen girls were typing at desks, their heads turning as she appeared. They smiled at her, chorussing a greeting, and she smiled back as she walked to the opaque-glass door which bore her own name.
The firm occupied the whole of the fifth floor. There were some dozen different offices leading off the open area. Her own boss, the managing director, had a large square room beyond her own, with a door communicating between them.
She had worked for Alex St James for four years now. For several years before that she had worked as a secretary before being promoted at the age of twenty-two, and she knew that her air of reserved efficiency had been responsible for her elevation. Working with temperamental musicians, Alex St James had looked for someone even-tempered with sufficient common sense to deal with the artistes.
Before leaving work the previous evening she had tidied her office, preferring to find it spick and span when she began work in the morning. She had a passion for orderliness. Now she stood, glancing around the room with eyes which missed nothing, before, satisfied, she hung her jacket on a coat-hanger, tucked away that maddening stray lock of hair which somehow always managed to escape her, then walked to her desk.
While she was glancing through the post the door opened and a voice barked at her, 'Come through!'
She put down the letters and walked into the other office. Alex was holding his green appointments book, a frown corrugating his brow. Deborah stood, her face expressionless, waiting.
He glanced up and a flicker of sardonic irritation crossed his face. 'Sit down,' he said sharply.
Alex St James had inherited an old-fashioned music company from his father ten years earlier, transforming it over the years into a dynamic modern firm which had gradually acquired a small, but hugely profitable, list of recording stars. His energy and intuition were indisputable — Deborah reluctantly conceded his flair. Professionally, she admired him. As a man, however, he aroused a strong hostility in her, a silent emotion of which he was well aware.
In his late thirties, built on lean but muscular lines, he tended to dress casually even for work, wearing expensive but figure-moulding shirts in dark colours, thrust into tightly-fitting denim pants, often worn with a matching jacket. He rarely wore a tie, often left his collars undone, and wore his thick black hair loose down to his collar in a style which Deborah considered untidy. His face was hard, energetic, sometimes full of charm, always disturbingly attractive. His eyes were a grey so light as to be silvery. In temper they took on the colour of steel and sparked with rage. His cheekbones were angular, fleshless, almost austere. His mouth was a little too wide, the top lip firm and controlled, the lower fuller, conveying the hint of sensuality. His face reflected his mood, sometimes cruel, sometimes scornful, always full of a personal instinctive power. He looked as though he ran on electricity. Sometimes he seemed almost incandescent, his mind revolving rapidly, so far ahead of her own that she resented his ability to think faster than normal humans.
The basis of her secret hostility towards him was her personal aversion to his code of living. He pursued success with grim intensity. He worked and played hard. He used his undoubted sex appeal mercilessly.
His name had been coupled with a succession of stars. She often suspected Alex knew how to manipulate the media too well — a new star often got acres of free publicity by being seen night-clubbing with him for a few weeks. The restaurant gossip saved the firm a fortune spent on publicity. These relationships fizzled out rapidly, for one reason or another. He showed no signs of marrying, and none of his affairs had ever appeared serious. His ruthless attitude appalled her.
When she first began to work for him he had several times asked her to dine with him but she had politely but firmly refused all invitations. His response had been a needling form of mockery. Her cool good looks and quiet manner had infuriated him. She had ignored his constant barbed remarks, maintaining her own temper with difficulty, then one day had lost her temper and snapped back at him. His amusement had softened their relationship, and for a brief time they had worked together in comparative harmony. Suddenly Alex had asked her out again, but quietly she had told him that she was already engaged for the evening. His narrow-eyed surprise had amused her. He had not believed her excuse until he discovered that she was regularly dating the firm's accountant, Robin May-hew. Deborah had been seeing Robin for some months. Her working relationship with Alex had become barbed again, and she was always relieved when he was away on business. When it was necessary for her to accompany him on his trips abroad she found the experience unnerving. When she was alone with Alex she always felt her nerves prickling uneasily. He was as difficult as handle as a wild eagle; savage, unpredictable, predatory.
'How many of my appointments for tomorrow and Friday would you say were urgent?' he asked her suddenly,
catching her staring at him.
She flushed at his narrowing eyes. He was conceited enough to imagine all the wrong reasons for her gaze. Aloud she said quietly, 'Only the one with Sammy Starr. Her contract is up for renewal.' She lowered her lids, adding remotely, 'And you have a lunch date with Miss Gilmore tomorrow.' Magda Gilmore was a bronze-haired model whom he had been seeing a good deal recently. Working for one of the new, smaller fashion houses, her barbaric hairstyle and outlandish style of dress were more than offset by her exquisite figure and beautiful face. Her high cheekbones sometimes had a hectic flush. She laughed excitedly, in flute-light tones. She had the in-face of the moment. Deborah saw her face on magazines and in television advertisements. Alex always went out with girls whose appearance created public interest. His nose for public relations was impeccable and he preferred free publicity to paying for it.
He was smiling reminiscently when she looked up. 'Ah, yes,' he said softly. 'Magda…' He sat down on the edge of his desk, his lean thigh pressing against her own. Deborah imperceptibly moved, and at once he looked at her derisively, bringing a flush to her cheek.
'We have to fly over to Nice,' he said. 'You'll have to cancel all our appointments until Monday. Try to get Sammy to come in and see me today if she's free. Is the contract ready?'
'Yes,' she said, her brow creasing. 'When you say we…'
He interrupted her with dry emphasis.
'I mean you and me, Miss Portman. This is one of those trips on which your presence is essential!'
He normally only took her with him when secrecy was essential. Secretary after secretary had proved to be indiscreet. Excitement or corruptibility had made them leak vital information before deals were signed, and Alex now refused to trust anyone but Deborah on such occasions.
She gave him a look of dismay. 'Have you forgotten? I have an important date this weekend. I mentioned it to you before you left for Stockholm. I can't be away.'
His mouth tightened. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'you've got to be there. I shall need help on this one. Anyway, you can fly back on Friday evening. Your weekend won't be in any danger.'
She stared at him hesitantly. Nothing must interfere with the weekend trip; Robin would never forgive her. 'Couldn't you take Linda?' she asked. Linda Evans, the most senior of the secretaries, worked for Alex's second-in-command, Joe Cohen, and was aware of some of the more private business which Alex preferred to have dealt with by his own office.
'No, I can't,' Alex said decisively. The silvery eyes surveyed her grimly. 'What's so vital about this weekend? Are you going away with Robin?'
Something in his tone brought a flush of dark red into her face. Her eyes hardened. 'No,' she snapped. Then she hesitated, her logical mind reminding her that, in fact, she was doing just that, but not in the sense in which he had undoubtedly meant it. She added in very uncharacteristic confusion, 'That is… well…' Her flush deepened at his gaze. 'I'm going to stay with his family,' she said in defiance, her rounded chin lifting.
'My God!' he said mockingly. 'He's taking you home to meet mother, is he? I'm sure she'll approve of his choice. You have that sweet virginal look every mother wants for her son.'
Her eyes darkened with anger. 'I did tell you about it,' she said. 'I remember speaking to you.'
'I doubt if I heard a word,' he said, shrugging. 'I was too concerned with the Stockholm trip to listen to your romantic confidences. What difference does it make? We'll fly back on Friday in plenty of time for you to meet Robin. I've a pleasant weekend planned for myself, so we won't miss the plane.'
Deborah stared at him indecisively, the tip of her tongue worrying the centre of her lower lip.
The grey eyes dropped to her mouth and with a faint sensation of uneasiness she hurriedly closed her lips, looking away. It infuriated her that, despite her dislike of him, she should be unable to avoid an occasional awareness of him.
Sighing, she said, 'Very well. I'll make the reservations.'
His voice sounded abstractedly intent. 'Good,' he murmured. She looked up again and their eyes met. She felt a peculiar sensation run down her spine, as though he had touched her.
'I heard in Stockholm from a reliable source that Ricky Winter's contract with Wolf Music comes up for renewal soon and he's in the middle of a row with Russ Wolf. If I could sign him before anyone else gets to him it would be a feather in our caps.'
Her eyes widened. 'Ricky Winter… he's good.'
'Better than that,' Alex said scornfully. 'He's fantastic, but pretty difficult to handle, they say. It won't be easy to get him. I want to keep this under wraps until I've made the contact. Linda is a nice girl, but I can't afford to have the news leak out.'
'Linda is very discreet,' she said indignantly. Linda was a friend of hers, and she was certain she could be trusted.
'Don't fly off the handle,' he said. 'Ricky Winter is far too important for me to take any risks.'
She shrugged. 'Which hotel shall I book us into?'
'April is low season,' said Alex indifferently. 'Anywhere will do.'
Leaning over his desk, he scribbled down a number, his body swinging round so that again his legs brushed against hers, the lean muscles hard against her silk-clad calf. Deborah pulled back nervously and he straightened, his derisive glance informing her that he had noted her second withdrawal from physical contact. 'Ring Miss Gilmore at this number and tell her I have to cancel our date,' he said. 'I'll ring her when I get back from Nice.'
She rose, unavoidably coming closer. Their faces were inches apart, their eyes meeting with veiled expressions. Irritably she felt the powerful tug of Alex's sexual attraction. No woman working in such close proximity to an attractive male could be blind to his sensual appeal, and it was not the first time she had felt instinctively aware of him. The grey eyes held her glance for a second, then dropped to stare deliberately at her mouth, clearly conscious of the heat which came into her face. Although she had no strong feminist leanings, Deborah found it irritating that Alex should treat her less as a capable colleague than as a desirable woman, silently making it clear that he was aware of her sexuality. Far from being flattered she felt infuriated. His permanent involvement with other women made these moments insulting. They were the automatic gestures of a man who used his sex appeal ruthlessly, and she despised them.
Moving back into her own office, she first rang Sammy Starr, who answered after some time in a sleep-drugged voice and was raucous about having to come into London at such short notice. 'But I'll be there,' she added with a smile coining into her voice. 'If Alex whistles, who wouldn't run?'
Ringing off, Deborah made a face at the receiver. Alex had been very attentive to Sammy Starr when she first joined their list, but the relationship had imperceptibly cooled after a while, although she suspected Sammy still carried a torch for him. The five-foot high, rough-voiced Australian singer made no secret about her passion for him. Deborah had once seen her kiss him passionately at a large party, her arms flung round his neck in blatant ownership. Alex had seemed amused rather than embarrassed. His glance at Deborah a moment later had been wickedly sardonic. She had felt angry pity for the twenty-year-old Sammy, although Sammy's vital cheerfulness had not really demanded it. Deborah had never noticed any signs of bitter grief when Sammy visited them. She appeared to have accepted her loss of Alex with good humour.
She picked up the telephone again and began to make a list of phone calls, cancelling her appointments. Then she got on with her work, her face smoothing out into absorption as she became engrossed.
Alex called her into his office some hours later. He had taken off his jacket and was deep in paperwork, his desk awash with it. The collar of his shirt was open, and against his brown throat she saw a silver medallion Sammy had given him for luck after her first concert. He turned, his dark hair flicking back, and eyed her sardonically.
'You always look as if you were about to open a bazaar,' he said, the silvery eyes running down over her slender body, lingering on her long smoo
th legs.
'You look as if you've been dragged through a hedge backwards,' she retorted tartly.
He smiled. Deliberately he undid two more buttons on his shirt, revealing the fine dark hair on his muscular chest. 'It's warm for April,' he said casually, watching her.
'I'm going to lunch,' she said abruptly, on the point of going.
'Did you ring Miss Gilmore?' he asked, halting her.
'Yes. She asked if you could ring her yourself.' Her tone held nothing but polite indifference, although she had felt sorry for Magda, whose dismay at the news had been obvious.
'And you told her?' he asked.
'That you were busy but would try,' she said, her eyes on the changing sky.
'Soul of tact,' he murmured drily. 'You managed to make the Nice reservations?'
'Yes,' she agreed.
'Separate rooms, of course?' he asked in deliberately taunting tones which brought her averted gaze to his face in immediate anger.
'Yes,' she said tightly.
He leaned back in his chair, his fingers playing with the silver medallion, the small movement unavoidably attracting her attention. 'When is the happy announcement to be made?' he asked softly. 'I presume you are getting engaged to Robin this weekend?'
'Yes,' she said flatly. 'At a party for his parents' wedding anniversary. Robin thought it would be a suitable occasion.'
'How very neat,' he said sardonically. 'The accountant's mind — balance the books. Keep neat columns. Economise, even on emotion.'
Deborah's face tightened with anger, but she firmly ignored his attempt to make her rise to his bait.
'I don't want to be late for lunch,' she said, glancing at her wristwatch.
The restless silvery eyes slid over her again. 'The two of you will suit admirably,' he said in barbed tones. 'You'll do the household accounts instead of making love and never let the emotional temperature rise above zero.'
Her eyes flashed in irritation. 'You're hardly in a position to criticise us,' she said, her temper suddenly flaring. 'What you know about marriage could be written on a postage stamp!'
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