At the Boss's Command

by Darcy Maguire

  ‘Drink the stuff that comes out of the tap?’ Lavinia said disapprovingly. ‘You bad boy, you know I only touch Vichy or Perrier.’

  Anton smiled. ‘Well, I hope you don’t plan to start buying your own air, too. You wouldn’t be nearly so pretty wearing a scuba mask.’

  ‘You’re just trying to annoy me,’ Lavinia said in a purring voice. She reached out a slender brown hand and began to stroke his arm. It was a gesture of unmistakable possession. ‘These projects of yours to refine used oil aren’t nearly as profitable as big, old-fashioned refineries.’

  ‘I haven’t noticed that profits have dropped lately,’ he replied mildly.

  ‘Not yet—but they will do if you let the opposition take over your traditional business while you gallop off on your new hobby-horse.’ The slim, tanned fingers curled on his forearm, and the pearly nails dug in hungrily, assessing the springy muscles. ‘And recycling—that must be the least stylish word in the English language, for heaven’s sake!’

  Anton laughed. ‘It ought to be the most stylish word in the English language.’

  ‘And anyway, what’s the percentage in cleaning up old oil that’s already been used?’

  ‘The percentage is that we’re teaching people to re-utilise a finite resource. When the planet’s oil supplies run out, we’re going to have to start cleaning up the old oil anyway. But we won’t be able to do that if it’s all been dumped in holes in the ground!’

  ‘Oh, Anton! Who’s interested in all that Doomsday talk?’

  ‘People who care about the environment, for one thing. For another, people who want to offset expensive oil imports.’

  Lavinia lowered her eyelids over amethyst eyes. ‘But dear boy, don’t we want the price of oil to go up?’

  ‘Not unless you’re happy to see the world caught up in another oil crisis, with all that that entails.’

  Heinz, the banker, leaned forward. ‘It doesn’t do to turn your business into an aid organisation, old boy. You’ve sold off the Marseilles refinery, which was making a fortune.’

  ‘The deal looks pretty good to me,’ Anton replied easily.

  ‘Maybe the stockholders will feel less certain. And launching new technology is a risky business, whatever fine moral principles you espouse. As Lavinia’s banker, I have to agree with her. Remember your shareholders. Don’t get carried away by a dream.’

  ‘My whole business is built on a dream,’ Anton said. ‘The day I stop dreaming will be the day I stop living. My latest dream is of a cleaner world where our oil supplies last for centuries longer. But I’ve made it clear at the last few shareholders’ meetings that refining raw stock is an increasingly crowded field. We have to look to new technologies if we’re to keep growing. Refining used oil is the way of the future. And as crude oil gets scarcer and more expensive, it can only become more important. To everybody, not just developing nations. It’s a new field, yes, but we’re going to be dominant in it.’

  ‘Darling boy,’ Lavinia drawled, ‘I like to see lots and lots of money in my bank account. Nothing else matters to me. I don’t care if that means chimneys belching smoke or the occasional oil-spill on some remote coastline—as long as it isn’t ours.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Mike said in a slurred voice.

  ‘We’re in the oil business,’ Lavinia went on. She was still kneading Anton’s arm insistently. ‘If the price of Mr Jones filling his gas tank goes up, that just means more profits for you and me!’

  ‘But it is on your coastline,’ Amy heard herself say.

  Lavinia turned cold eyes on her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It is on your coastline,’ Amy repeated. ‘That sea that you gaze at may look blue, but it’s more polluted than anywhere else in the Mediterranean.’

  ‘That’s an exaggeration, to put it kindly,’ Lavinia said grimly. ‘Everything you have eaten tonight comes out of that sea.’

  ‘Yes, and I’m afraid that this delicious fish we’re eating is full of heavy metals like mercury, cadmium and lead. And those tasty moules à la marinière contain some very colourful toxins, including polynuclear aromatic hydrocarbons. It all comes from the oil refineries at Marseilles. Nobody’s doing very much about it, except people like Anton. So it is on your coastline, you see.’

  Lavinia’s mouth and eyes showed her anger. ‘We have all heard these scare stories for years. But nobody has actually died yet.’

  ‘Millions of fish and shellfish have died,’ Amy retorted. ‘Every year, countless tons of used oil just get dumped into the environment,’ she went on. ‘With Anton’s technology, all of that could be turned back into a valuable resource and reused. And his shareholders have no cause to complain. Profits are well up for the tenth quarter in a row. I think you should just let him do what he does best, sit back, and enjoy the profits.’

  ‘Amy,’ Anton said in a low, but warning voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, perhaps that was unpardonably rude,’ Amy said, flushing hotly. ‘It’s a subject I feel strongly about.’

  Lavinia’s hand was clamped hard on Anton’s arm now, as though she had suddenly become aware of a dangerous challenge to her authority. In her violet sheath, she resembled some exotic snake about to strike. ‘Well, dear Snow White,’ she said thinly, ‘having eaten my poisoned apple, when can we expect you to fall into a deep—and silent— slumber?’

  ‘Amy is certainly right about the bottom line,’ Anton said, stepping swiftly into the breach as Amy coloured even more hotly. ‘The new technology and its spin-offs look set to earn us even bigger profits. I’m going to announce expansion plans at the next board meeting.’

  His calm voice seemed to soothe Lavinia’s ire as he explained the network of refineries he was planning to build over the next years, but Amy felt as though a jagged stone had lodged in her throat. She hadn’t meant to get so carried away, and insult Lavinia Carron at her own table. Or to embarrass Anton by being so obstreperous that her hostess had told her to shut up. He was probably furious with her and she would be lucky to keep her job. Most likely, she would be finding herself unemployed by tomorrow morning.

  Truth to tell, perhaps it had been watching those sharp, pearly nails raking Anton’s skin that had enraged her so much, not just the conversation.

  Whatever her excuse, she was now plainly about as welcome at the dinner party as a pile of horse manure. The best thing she could do was cart herself off as soon as possible and spread herself on the rose beds.

  Accordingly, as soon as they adjourned from the table and moved to the salon, Amy offered a quiet apology about feeling tired and excused herself. Lavinia ignored her utterly. Anton, cornered between the hostess and her Swiss banker, was too busy to do more than glance at her as she left. Slinking up to bed, Amy felt tears of mortification pricking behind her eyelids. She was hurried on her way by a comment from Lavinia which—luckily—she did not hear, but which brought a guffaw of laughter from the other guests.

  She lay in her lonely bed in a state of misery. Despite the huge size of the house, she could occasionally catch bursts of laughter or music from downstairs. It gave her the sensation of being a child again, exiled to her room for some fresh piece of bad behaviour, eavesdropping on a life which she was not permitted to share.

  She was still far from sleep when, hours later, her door swung open and the light flared on.

  Dazzled, her eyes hurting, she sat up in bed. A tall figure was towering over her.

  ‘Anton?’

  ‘What the hell were you playing at tonight?’ he demanded savagely. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

  ‘Anton, I’m so sorry,’ she said abjectly. ‘I don’t know what got into me.’

  ‘Didn’t you listen to anything I told you on the way up here?’

  ‘Yes, I promise that I did listen—’

  ‘Lavinia holds a twenty per cent stake in the corporation. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘And she doesn’t like the new direction we’re taking. The ide
a was to reassure her—not antagonise her. And her bank manager, for heaven’s sake.’ Her eyes were growing used to the light, but it did not give her any consolation to see that his mouth was a harsh line and that his eyes were almost black with anger. ‘What the hell did you think you were playing at?’

  His tone was so angry that she was on the verge of tears. ‘I didn’t mean to mess things up for you, Anton. When she started talking so callously, I just lost it. Are you going to fire me?’

  ‘Lavinia has specifically requested exactly that,’ he replied.

  Her eyes welled. ‘Oh.’

  The sight of her wet eyes seemed to make him pause. ‘Don’t do that,’ he snapped.

  ‘Sorry.’ She blotted her tears. ‘I’ve been lying here counting the ways in which I made a fool of myself tonight.’

  He sat on the bed beside her. ‘It was certainly a spectacular display of foolishness.’

  She cringed at the comment. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said with a lump in her throat. ‘Am I fired?’

  He paused before replying. Her heart fluttered like a broken bird. ‘If I don’t fire you,’ he said in a calmer voice, ‘Lavinia will be even angrier.’

  ‘Then you’d better fire me,’ she whispered.

  ‘I don’t take orders from anyone,’ he said shortly. ‘And I have never fired anyone for speaking their mind. Besides, you said nothing but the truth. I’m going to risk Lavinia’s wrath.’ His eyes narrowed terrifyingly. ‘But if you say or do one thing more to annoy her while we’re here, I will personally throttle you.’

  ‘I’ll be as silent as a stone,’ she said fervently. ‘I’m really sorry, Anton. I don’t know what got into me.’

  ‘The point of this visit is so I can make sure she doesn’t create a fuss at the next board meeting and panic other shareholders. Do you think you can manage to stay in the background for a few days?’

  ‘I’ll go for long, solitary walks,’ she vowed. ‘You can let her squeeze your arm and tell her she looks like a portrait by Paul Jacoulet as much as you like.’

  ‘Good,’ he said.

  ‘Who is Paul Jacoulet, by the way?’

  ‘A French artist who made drawings of beautiful women.’

  ‘Oh. How cultured you are. Those breasts aren’t real, you know.’

  ‘Amy,’ he said warningly.

  She cursed herself. This was becoming a kind of insanity. ‘Sorry. I will behave, I promise.’

  She felt his hand stroke her hair. ‘I know it’s going to be hard for you,’ he said softly. ‘You looked like an angel tonight—try and be one for a while.’

  She turned her face so that her soft cheek rested in the palm of his hand. ‘How far do you intend to go along the path of charm?’

  ‘Trust me.’ He drew her close and kissed her cheek. ‘It’s all in a good cause.’

  ‘I do trust you.’ It required only a small tilt of her head— or did he tilt his?—for her lips to brush his.

  ‘My sweet Amy,’ he whispered. He kissed her lips again, then a third time. His mouth was so sweet, so tender. She felt herself melting. She slipped her arms around his neck, the ache in her heart turning into a surging warmth.

  His tongue searched for hers, found it, caressed it longingly. A thrill of desire ran through her. She was finally learning to trust him. When he kissed her like this, doubts fled like shadows from the rising sun.

  Anton’s warm hand touched her breasts. She was wearing only a light summer negligée. Her nipples tightened with delight at his touch, pressing into his palm as he cupped her curves. At least they were real, she thought, exulting in his touch.

  ‘I want you so much, Amy!’ he whispered.

  But at that moment, an unmistakable voice floated along the corridor. ‘Anton? Have you got lost, darling boy? Where are you?’

  ‘Damn her,’ Anton said, with a catch in his voice. He kissed her eyelids. ‘She wants us all to go into Antibes to see the moonlight on the sea or some such nonsense.’

  ‘I was about to throw you out, anyway,’ Amy said with an effort. She pushed him away with the last of her strength. ‘Duty calls. Go where glory awaits you.’

  Anton laughed softly. ‘Aye aye. Sweet dreams, angel girl.’

  He slipped out of her room. Shortly afterwards, Amy thought she heard Lavinia Carron’s fluting laugh.

  She curled into a ball, feeling his kiss still burning her lips, her nipples still aching at his touch. What she would give to be with Anton for the rest of this night, looking at the moonlight on the sea.

  Or some such nonsense.

  She had to get a grip on herself. Jealousy was the greeneyed monster that mocked what it fed upon. She would never have dreamed of letting Anton get so close to her— except that it hurt so much to see him being appropriated by Lavinia Carron!

  What a mystery the female heart was! She should have been delighted to have the pressure taken off her. Having rejected Anton’s advances countless times, in countless subtle and not-so-subtle ways, having convinced herself that he was a heartless rake, what was bringing these tears to her eyes?

  Chapter Eight

  SHE would always look back on the rest of that week as one of the most miserable periods of her life.

  To begin with, the next morning, Gerda Meyer, the Swiss woman, came down with a violent stomach upset. In light of Amy’s unfortunate remarks the evening before about toxins in seafood, it was hardly an auspicious event. Each time Lavinia looked Amy’s way there seemed to be an almost perceptible rumble of psychic thunder.

  By way of atonement—for the crime, presumably, of not having been summarily fired for insolence—Amy found herself cast in the role of nurse and comforter to Gerda, who was not in any way an easy patient. Her husband, Heinz, seemed to be eager to stay as far away from the bed of suffering as possible.

  Bringing Gerda her umpteenth tisane of the day, Amy found the sufferer well enough to be sitting up accusingly, her blonde hair in disarray.

  ‘Why did you have to talk about such horrible things last night?’ she wailed. ‘You have upset me terribly! What if I have been poisoned?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a simple tummy bug,’ Amy said soothingly. ‘It happens in the summertime, especially after eating shellfish.’

  ‘Do not mention shellfish!’ Gerda clutched at the tisane and gulped it down. ‘Oh, my poor stomach! And I look such a fright,’ she moaned, peering into her hand-mirror. ‘The least you can do is help me look presentable so I can receive visitors.’

  ‘Of course,’ Amy sighed. She fetched Gerda’s brush— silver-backed and monogrammed—and started brushing the heavy blonde tresses into order.

  ‘Where are Lavinia and Anton?’ Gerda demanded.

  Gritting her teeth at the way the two names had been lumped together as a self-evident pair, Amy replied, ‘They’ve gone for a ride together on the horses.’

  Indeed, she had seen them walking off along the hillside together just after lunch, looking very companionable. It was as though she and Anton inhabited different planets today. He had barely spoken to her. His attention had been focused on Lavinia.

  ‘They will be married soon,’ Gerda said. ‘Please be careful! You are pulling my hair out by the roots!’

  ‘Sorry,’ Amy said thickly. ‘What makes you say they’re going to get married?’

  Gerda giggled. ‘Oh, Lavinia has made up her mind. And what Lavinia wants, Lavinia gets!’

  ‘You mean Anton Zell has no say in the matter?’

  ‘What would he want to say?’

  ‘He might want to protest.’

  ‘Protest?’ Gerda asked in perplexity. ‘They are both rich, beautiful and stylish. They belong together. Anyone can see that.’

  Amy swallowed. ‘Yes. I suppose so. But there do seem to be some differences between them.’

  ‘You mean about the new technology? Oh, that is nothing. A little hitch in the proceedings. She hasn’t invited him here to talk about that, I assure you, Elsie.’

  ‘It’s Amy. So
why has she invited him here?’

  ‘To propose to him, of course.’

  ‘Oh. These days the women are proposing to the men?’

  ‘Hah! She is as smart as a whip, that one. You know she just got her helicopter licence?’

  Amy concentrated on the thick hair. ‘Yes, I heard that.’

  ‘Men are like helicopters. You just need to learn which buttons to push, which levers to pull and, voilà, you are flying!’ She giggled. ‘It will be the wedding of the decade. Help me to put on my housecoat.’

  Feeling bruised inside, Amy helped Gerda put on the floral pink geisha gown. Gerda pushed out her monumental bosoms and caressed their curves complacently. ‘They are magnificent, aren’t they? Yours are all right. Bigger than Lavinia’s at least. They’re the only thing she lacks—and not for want of trying, either, I might tell you,’ she added with a flash of malice.

  ‘I suppose she has all the other advantages a woman could want,’ Amy said dully, helping Gerda to tie the sash.

  She had to spend most of the rest of the afternoon listening to Gerda boast about her money and her figure—both of which were inherited, apparently, and owed nothing to art. Inside, though, Amy was trying not to let Gerda’s gossip-column tittle-tattle weigh too heavily on her soul.

  But why should she feel proprietorial about Anton? Just because he had kissed her last night—before that unfortunate interruption? Could she say by that brief moment that he really cared about her? If he went riding with Lavinia— or studying the moonlight with her—it was only business. And his business, at that. Wasn’t it?

  The happy couple returned from their ride looking even more companionable than before. The afternoon had been a hot one, redolent with the smell of herbs and loud with cicadas. Amy had to fight her imagination to stop visualising what might have transpired between them under some gnarled pine tree or in the shade of some olive grove.

  She encountered Anton as he was going upstairs to change. His shirt was unbuttoned and among the dark, crisp hair that covered his muscular chest she could see a few torn rosemary leaves.

  ‘I see she’s planning to roast you in herbs,’ she said tonelessly.