At the Boss's Command

by Darcy Maguire

  Five minutes later, after shaking a dozen hands and accepting fulsome congratulations, she and Anton were walking out of the club.

  It was a beautiful, clear night. Their hotel was a ten-minute walk away, so they elected to stroll back along the Promenade.

  ‘When Monsieur Barbusse wakes up tomorrow morning and reads that contract, he may have rather more than a hangover!’ she commented as they walked.

  Anton burst out laughing. He put her arm around her waist and drew her close, so that they were walking in unison. ‘Believe me, Henri is a better businessman than you give him credit for. He’s going to make a lot of money out of this deal. And I have the capital I need to expand in south-east Asia. Nobody got robbed here.’

  ‘Just remind me never to play poker with you,’ she said.

  ‘Look! The moon in June.’

  A full moon was hanging over the sea, making a river of silver light along the waves. They stopped to admire it. She rested her head on Anton’s shoulder dreamily.

  ‘Here you are, orphan boy,’ she said. ‘Now an industrial giant, with interests all over the world. What’s it like to come from having so little to having all this?’

  He stroked her hair. ‘There’s an old saying—a man only has what he can hold in his two hands. Looked at from that point of view, I have always had what you call “all this”. And I will always have nothing.’

  ‘You own yourself,’ she replied quietly, ‘and that’s more than most men have.’

  ‘Or most women. And you own yourself, Amy.’

  ‘It doesn’t always feel like that,’ she said in a small voice.

  ‘You’re the most self-possessed woman I know,’ he said, smiling. ‘The problem is trying to get you to let go now and then.’

  ‘For example?’

  ‘For example, you know that I am mad about you, but you won’t let me near you.’

  She shivered at his caress. ‘You’re near me now.’

  ‘True, in a brotherly sort of way. But—for example, if I tried to kiss you now, you would jump like a scalded cat.’

  Amy closed her eyes. She was not so sure of that. ‘Cats are animals that like things on their own terms,’ she said.

  ‘Something that every cat-lover knows,’ he said, his voice purring. ‘Now, you see, Henri Barbusse is a bird-lover. He likes to put them in cages and admire them in captivity. I prefer you spitting and scratching.’

  ‘I would never leave you to go to Henri Barbusse, even if he tripled my salary.’

  ‘So you are a little bit mad about me, too?’ he asked softly, kissing her ear.

  Shudders ran down her spine. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘I just like my job, Mr Zell.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all! Now take your wildcat home before she starts scratching and spitting!’

  The yellow moon followed them as they walked back to the hotel, holding hands.

  With everything concluded in Marseilles, they were free to go to the Côte d’Azur for a short break. They were to be house guests at the Antibes villa of Lady Carron—whom Anton had described as a troublesome shareholder, but who, Amy suspected by her imperious phone calls, might be something more.

  Anton rented an open-topped Mercedes sports car— which he claimed was de rigueur in the south of France in summer—and they drove in a leisurely way from Marseilles along the coast. She was getting on so well with him lately that everything was like a happy dream.

  They drove through a sunlit Mediterranean landscape of vineyards, pine forests and wide beaches, stopping along the way to have lunch in the garden of a country restaurant called La Sirène, where the food and the wine were magnificent.

  ‘So the people we’re going to be staying with in Antibes are major shareholders in the Zell Corporation?’ she asked Anton over the gooey and delicious tarte Tatin.

  ‘It’s a complicated story,’ he replied. ‘To try and simplify it: Sir Robert Carron was a financier who backed me when I started up. The first few refineries I built were financed with loans from him. His firm also steered us through the rights issue when we went public a few years later. He had confidence in us so he bought several blocks of shares. He married Lavinia quite recently. She was much younger than Robert. When he died, she inherited a lot of his shareholdings—so she now has a twenty per cent stake in the Zell Corporation.’

  ‘That gives her quite a voice.’

  ‘Exactly. Hence this visit. Lavinia is young, but very shrewd—and very strong-willed. She has her own idea about the direction the corporation should be taking. So I’ve got two choices. Buy her out—or keep her sweet.’

  ‘And keeping her sweet is cheaper,’ Amy said, her voice a lot more acid than the mouthful of buttery, caramelised apple she had just swallowed.

  ‘Cheaper and more fun,’ he said with a wicked glint in his eyes.

  ‘I see,’ Amy said, even more sourly. ‘The dear departed Sir Robert had good taste, did he?’

  ‘She’s not particularly beautiful. But she is interesting. As you will see.’

  ‘I can hardly wait.’

  ‘It will be an education,’ he promised.

  ‘It’s so peaceful here,’ Amy sighed, looking up at the cypresses and gnarled olive trees all around, not wanting to leave. It was hot and the chirring of cicadas was soporific. ‘I think this must be an enchanted garden. I’m very glad to be out of Marseilles.’

  ‘So am I,’ Anton replied. ‘At least it’s stopped you putting the moves on poor Henri.’

  ‘I was not putting the moves on him,’ she said indignantly.

  ‘Yes, you were. It was scandalous. You were as bad as her.’ He pointed to the old stone fountain, in the shape of a seductive and very bosomy mermaid, after which the restaurant was obviously named.

  ‘I was not,’ she retorted. ‘Henri is a randy old goat, and you know it.’

  ‘He did appear to be ripping your bodice.’

  ‘He was trying to give me his card.’

  ‘Is that what you mermaids call it?’

  She glanced at the statue of the mermaid. ‘Anyway, I don’t have her attributes.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Anton said silkily. ‘I’m very glad that you’re woman from the navel down, and not halibut.’

  She giggled. ‘You are wayward, dear master. And you don’t know much about mermaids.’

  ‘Enlighten me,’ he invited, filling her glass.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘mermaids do occasionally mate with mortal men. They lose their fish tails and look just like ordinary women. But it’s usually only for a year or two. They pine for the sea. And one stormy night, they change back again without warning. They disappear. Go back to the sea.’

  ‘Leaving a heartbroken mortal man?’ he suggested.

  ‘And the bed full of fish scales.’

  ‘So you could be a mermaid after all?’ he asked, looking into her eyes

  Amy batted her eyelids. ‘You never know.’

  ‘Hmm. That might explain some of your peculiar ways.’

  ‘It might, indeed,’ she agreed.

  ‘And tell me,’ he went on softly, ‘what induces a mermaid to mate with a mortal man?’

  ‘When they fall in love.’ She rested her chin on her hand, smiling at him. ‘But it hardly ever happens.’

  ‘And when they do fall in love, isn’t there any way of keeping them from turning back into mermaids?’

  ‘Only one way.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘They have to have a baby. A mortal child. Then they forget the sound of the crashing waves and become human women for ever.’

  ‘So if I want to keep you, I have to make you pregnant?’

  She had been lost in the romantic warmth of their bantering, but those words brought a sudden chill into her soul. ‘That wouldn’t be very wise,’ she said, looking away.

  ‘I’m only teasing,’ he said gently. ‘I just want to know how to get a mermaid to fall in love with me.’

  ‘I told you, it hardly ever
happens.’

  ‘Like hurricanes in Hertford, Hereford and Hampshire?’

  ‘That’s right, Professor Higgins.’

  Anton smiled faintly at her tense expression. ‘And the maiden turned back into a cold stone statue. What did I say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  He sighed. ‘Well, if we’re going to reach Antibes by suppertime, I suppose we’d better get moving.’

  Amy felt her heart ache as they left the enchanted garden with the stone mermaid. Why was it that in the most heavenly moments, something always popped up, like an ugly jack-in-the-box, to bring her back down to earth?

  Chapter Seven

  LAVINIA CARRON’S villa was not in Antibes itself, but situated in the rocky, sun-baked hills behind the town. It was a very commanding position, with spreading views of the harbour and the old town, with Nice visible in the distance, on the other side of the bay.

  The house itself was very large, made of stone, and obviously two or three centuries old. No expense had been spared in its restoration. As they drove along the immaculately gravelled driveway, Amy glimpsed modern sculptures among the surgically pruned flowering shrubs and tall cypresses of the gardens. There was a spectacular rose garden, too, the flowers arranged into geometric beds according to colour and height.

  They pulled up in a courtyard with a gleaming and rather magnificent marble fountain featuring three life-sized lions spouting water from snarling muzzles.

  ‘Eighteenth-century Italian,’ Anton told her. ‘Imported from Florence by Lavinia. It was rather too mossy for her taste, so she had it sand-blasted.’

  ‘How hygienic,’ Amy commented.

  As they were getting out of the car, they heard the clop of a horse’s hooves. A woman on a big bay gelding came trotting into the courtyard. She jumped off lightly.

  ‘Anton! Darling! How lovely to see you.’

  Lady Carron was a slim woman with brown hair and a lean, suntanned face, in which large, violet eyes glowed brightly. As Anton had said, her features were interesting rather than conventionally beautiful, with an aquiline nose and a rather thin mouth; but she was certainly a very attractive woman nonetheless. And she looked very good in her boots, jodhpurs and white cotton shirt.

  She kissed Anton warmly on each cheek. ‘You look wonderful, darling boy. Quite untarnished by Eastern suns.’

  ‘You look like a bowl of choice fruit yourself, Lavinia,’ he grinned. ‘This is my assistant, Amy Worthington. Amy, Lavinia Carron.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Lady Carron,’ Amy said, resisting the urge to curtsey like some pre-Revolutionary French peasant.

  ‘Call me Lavinia, please.’ She gave Amy a hand which was small, strong, and still encased in a pale cream leather riding glove. ‘So you’re the new girl! I hope you’ve been looking after this naughty boy of mine?’

  ‘I have been trying,’ Amy said lightly.

  ‘Well, you can have a rest, you poor child. I’ll take over from now on.’ The glitter in the lavender eyes made sure Amy understood it was an order. Seen from close up, Lavinia Carron was not quite as young as the trim figure would suggest, but she was obviously very fit. She pulled off the gloves and took Anton’s arm in a firm brown hand. ‘Come and have a drink on the terrace, you naughty boy; you must be parched in this frightful heat.’

  The invitation did not include Amy, obviously. Anton threw her a rueful glance over his shoulder as Lavinia marched him off, leaving Amy with the servants who had emerged to take the bags and lead the horse away. She gave him a death’s-head grin in reply.

  The house had been furnished in the kind of taste that took a large budget and a very competent interior designer. It was also spotlessly neat and clean. Anton had been allocated a large room overlooking the garden and the blue Mediterranean in the distance. Her own room was very much smaller and darker, and boasted a view of the stables—where a large pile of manure was being forked into a cart by a young groom, no doubt destined for Lady Carron’s roses.

  She unpacked, trying not to feel resentful at having been so instantly and efficiently separated from Anton. Though he treated her as a friend and equal, there was no reason to expect that his wealthy friends would behave the same way.

  Feeling very much the poor relation, she tried to repair her appearance—her hair had been dishevelled in the open-topped car—with a quick shower and a change of clothing. She had just finished dressing in trousers and a deep pink shirt when Anton knocked at her door and let himself in.

  ‘Come and have a drink,’ he said. ‘You must meet the other guests.’

  ‘Are you sure I’m wanted?’ she asked. ‘I could just go down the back stairs to the pantry and get a bowl of gruel.’

  He laughed, deep blue eyes dancing. ‘You’ll get used to Lavinia. She has a certain style.’

  ‘So I see.’

  ‘Nice view,’ Anton commented, deadpan, looking out of her window.

  She joined him. Lady Carron’s glossy bay gelding was now being assiduously brushed in front of his stable door by the same young groom. ‘I don’t believe that horse has been ridden at all,’ she said grimly. ‘In this heat, both she and it would have been covered in sweat and dust in ten minutes.’

  ‘Perhaps she was just setting off when we arrived.’

  ‘Or perhaps she wanted you to see how trim she looked in her Lara Croft outfit. Please tell me she isn’t entertaining her guests in bespoke riding boots from W&H Gidden, with silver spurs a-jingling?’

  ‘She is not wearing spurs, as you very well know.’

  ‘Now, you see, a real lady would never wear jodhpurs to greet her guests. She just wants you to look at her backside.’

  ‘Well, being mistress of the house means you get to choose what view each guest gets,’ he said, evidently amused by her ill-temper.

  ‘Which is how you and I both wound up looking at the rear end of a horse,’ she said sweetly, studying herself in the mirror. ‘I’m ready to go down now, Master Anton.’

  The party assembled on the terrace was not very large. In addition to herself and Anton, there were two other couples, one Swiss, one French, and a solitary Englishman named Mike, who attached himself in a rather melancholy way to Amy. The one factor they all had in common was the unmistakable trappings of serious wealth—costly jewellery, watches, teeth and facelifts gleamed in the light of the setting sun.

  An unobtrusive maid served the drinks. Lavinia effortlessly steered Anton over to the other end of the terrace, where loud explosions of laughter were punctuating a funny story being told by the Swiss woman, who was a spectacular blonde with a lot of bosom on show. Her husband, a banker, was egging her on.

  The Englishman, Mike, who turned out to be Lavinia’s neighbour, had evidently already consumed several of the bright-orange drinks which he favoured.

  ‘I live in the next villa along,’ he told Amy. ‘Can’t see my house from here. Lavinia owns practically the whole hillside.’

  ‘It’s such a wonderful setting,’ Amy said sincerely. ‘You’re very lucky. Do you live here all the year round?’

  ‘I do. Lavinia doesn’t. She also has a house in London and a place in Barbados.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘My house isn’t quite as swish as Lavinia’s,’ Mike said, eyeing the flawless regularity of the stonework with an alcohol-bleared eye. ‘See how smooth the masonry is? When she was doing up the place, she had the stonemason go over the whole house with a fine-tooth comb. Every stone that was a funny shape or colour was ripped out and replaced.’

  ‘She likes all her ducks in a row.’

  ‘Oh, yes. A bit of class, Lavinia is. Asset to the community. You should see her, flying in with the chopper. She got her helicopter licence last year. Orange jumpsuit and mirror shades. Delicious sight.’

  ‘Even better than in jodhpurs and riding boots?’ Amy asked sympathetically.

  ‘Just about as good,’ Mike said sadly. ‘Been trying to get her to marry me ever since old Bob died. Don’t suppose I’ve go
t much hope.’

  ‘Keep trying,’ Amy advised. ‘You know the old saying? Nothing propinks like propinquity.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Being a neighbour,’ she explained gently. ‘You’re in a good position.’

  ‘Right,’ Mike said, tapping his inflamed nose wisely. ‘That’s just earned you another drink.’

  The sun went down, giving way to a velvety and cicada-inspired night. Dinner was served in the dining-room, which was an impressive chamber furnished with curvaceous mahogany Chippendale and what appeared to be real Impressionist paintings in heavy frames on the walls.

  As on the terrace, Amy had been paired with Mike, who by now was even sadder and more inebriated. But the party was small enough that she could hear all the conversations that were going on.

  Lavinia had finally changed out of her tailored riding gear and was wearing a violet sheath dress which intensified her eyes and showed off her slim, suntanned arms and shoulders—as well as two apple-like breasts that might or might not have owed their firmness to a judicious addition of silicone.

  ‘You look wonderful, Lavinia,’ Anton said appreciatively, ‘like something from a Paul Jacoulet print.’

  ‘Thank you, sweet boy,’ she purred in reply. Amy spread her napkin studiously in her lap, hoping she wasn’t going to throw up.

  The meal started with moules à la marinière, succulent mussels cooked in sherry. The main course was a huge baked fish in a rich Provençal sauce. Lavinia was watching with a hawk eye as the maid served each guest in turn.

  ‘Now tell me, you wicked boy,’ she said to Anton, smiling at him lazily over her Baccarat wine glass, ‘what is all this nonsense about turning the Zell Corporation into some kind of ecological charitable trust?’

  ‘I’ve never thought of myself as a charity,’ he replied with a smile. ‘But you know as well as I do that the petrochemical industry doesn’t exactly have a shining record on environmental issues.’

  ‘And pray, who cares about that apart from a few lunatic fringe groups?’

  ‘Well, we all ought to care about it,’ Anton replied, ‘since we all have to live in the same world, breathe the same air and drink the same water.’