The Boss's Virgin

by Charlotte Lamb

  Yes, it could have been much worse; it could have been disastrous. Her entire body was limp, as if she had barely escaped with her life. All the adrenalin had drained out of her. She yearned to be alone, in her cottage, to think, to recover from this.

  Tom parked outside her cottage a few moments later and turned to kiss her. ‘Goodnight, darling. I’m sorry about the accident.’ He looked down at her, frowning. ‘You’re very quiet—are you angry with me?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’m very tired, that’s all.’

  ‘And having an accident didn’t help,’ he wryly said, grimacing. ‘Sleep well, anyway. I’ll see you on Monday.’

  She got out of the car, waved to him as he drove off, and let herself into her cottage, switching on the light. Before she could shut the door again a furry black shape brushed past her and ran gracefully through the hall into the kitchen.

  Groaning, she closed the door and followed. ‘You’re a nuisance, you stupid cat. I want to go to bed, not hang around here feeding you.’

  Samson ignored her, nose in the air, his elegant black body seated pointedly beside the fridge. He knew there were the remains of a chicken in there, left over from the dinner she had cooked for Tom last night, and although he would eat tinned cat food if nothing else was available his favourite food was roast chicken.

  Pippa knew she would get no peace until she had given in, so she got out the chicken and sliced some into Samson’s bowl, added crushed biscuit, poured fresh water into another bowl, and put them down. The cat immediately started eating.

  Pippa left the kitchen, turning off the light, and went upstairs, stripped, put on a brief green cotton nightdress. In the bathroom she cleaned off her make-up and washed. In the mirror her face was oddly grey, her eyes dilated, black pupils glowing like strange fruit.

  Shock, she thought, looking away hurriedly. Returning to her bedroom, she got between the sheets and switched off the light.

  The cottage only had two bedrooms and a bathroom; downstairs there was a comfortable sitting room and the kitchen, with its small dining nook at one end. Her firm had helped her with the purchase; the price had been very low because the place had needed so much work. It had been occupied for years by an eccentric old man.

  He had left the cottage more or less as it had been when he’d inherited it from his father forty years earlier, she’d been told by the estate agent. He had done no repairs, no redecoration. By the time he died himself, the place had been in a parlous state. But—the agent had beamed—it wouldn’t take much trouble to modernise.

  She should never have believed him. Even though the price had been low, the mortgage was more than she would have wished to pay. She had very little left over once she had paid it each month. Despite that, she loved this little house; it was the first real home she had ever had.

  In her childhood she had passed from one “family” to another. Some foster mothers had only liked small children and hadn’t been able to cope with older girls. Once her foster family had split up in divorce and she had been parcelled off to another one. She had yearned for stability, for a sense of belonging, a real home—and at last she had one. No price could be too high for that.

  She could do without expensive clothes, make-up, visits to beauty parlours, holidays abroad. She had a home of her own; that was all that mattered.

  She had had to minimise the expense of conversion, though. So she had done all the redecorating herself, even painted the outside walls, standing on a rather rickety ladder she had bought for a song in an auction, but she had had to pay a local builder to repair the roof and instal a new bathroom. Those jobs were beyond her.

  But when she and Tom were married they would be living here; she wouldn’t have to move again. Tom had grown to dislike his own house; living on a housing estate meant living with noisy children running around all day, kicking balls, shouting, riding far too fast on their bicycles along pavements, and his neighbours played their radios and televisions too loudly.

  Life would be easier for them if they lived in her cottage. Tom insisted on taking over her mortgage and she meant to pay for all the food they bought. Their joint income would be comfortable. They would even take holidays in the sun in exotic places.

  Lying in the dark, staring up at the ceiling, Pippa smiled at that thought. She hadn’t been abroad much; she was dying to go to foreign places, enjoy better weather.

  An image flashed through her mind with a strangely vivid sensation, as if it was happening now, right now, and she started, shuddering.

  The car crash, those terrifying sounds of tyres screaming on tarmac, the airbag ballooning into her face, the red sports car skewed into the hawthorn hedge, the moment when the driver got out.

  Her heart beat painfully, her ears drumming with agitated blood. She shut her eyes. She wouldn’t think about it. She had to forget; she must clear her head.

  Oh, why had it happened? Why now? Fate had a strange sense of humour. Only one more week and she would be Tom’s wife. Why had they had the accident, crashed into the man’s car, at this particular time?

  She tried to sleep, but was awake most of the night. The flashback kept coming. Her brain was her enemy and would not let her forget. As the hours wore on, her head began to ache. She was first hot, then cold, twisting and turning in the bed, hearing the tick-tick of the clock on her bedside table as though it beat in her blood.

  Eventually she did fall into a heavy, stupefied sleep from which she woke abruptly when her alarm went off at nine o’clock. She felt like death as she stumbled out of bed.

  After a shower she dressed in jeans and a clean white T-shirt, then went downstairs to make coffee.

  Samson gave her an angry greeting. She was usually up well before this time, and like all cats he had a good sense of the time, especially where meals were concerned. While she moved about he kept brushing against her, slithering between her legs, making his demand calls. Miaow. Miaow. Where’s my breakfast? Where’s my food?

  After giving him a saucer of milk and cereal, she let him out of the back door, watched him streak through the little garden, then she poured herself orange juice and sat down to sip it. After contemplating the idea of some toast, she decided against it—she really wasn’t hungry.

  The dressmaker arrived half an hour later, bright and cheerful in a neat grey skirt and blue blouse. ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it?’ She said as Pippa opened the front door.

  ‘Lovely.’ In fact Pippa hadn’t noticed; she had been too preoccupied. Now she glanced around, absorbing the bright spring sunshine, the blue sky, the tassels of catkins on a hazel tree in her garden, the frilly yellow daffodils and deep purplish blue of hyacinth. She had planted them last year; this year they had come up without her help.

  ‘Yes, lovely,’ she agreed. Another one of Fate’s little jokes, this wonderful weather, the beauty of the morning. It should have been stormy, threatening, not full of light and hope. The weather did not fit her mood at all. ‘Can I get you some coffee, Mrs Lucas?’ she asked, stepping back to let the dressmaker into the hall.

  ‘Thanks, I’d love some later, but I’d like to get on with the fitting first; I have a busy day ahead.’ Mrs Lucas considered her, frowning. ‘Aren’t you well, dear? You’re very pale.’

  ‘We went to a party last night, and on the way home we had a bit of an accident.’

  ‘No! Was it serious? Anyone hurt?’

  ‘Thank heavens, no, and the car wasn’t badly damaged, but it was a shock.’

  ‘Of course it was. Bound to be. No wonder you’re pale. Well, I won’t take up too much of your time. There isn’t much to do; the dress is nearly finished. I just want to check that it fits perfectly. Have you got everything else, now?’

  ‘Almost everything.’

  ‘Good girl. Well, get your jeans and T-shirt off, stand on that chair, and I’ll slip the dress over your head.’ Mrs Lucas stood waiting while Pippa obeyed her. The silk and lace dress was carefully held between her two hands and once Pippa was i
n position she delicately lifted her hands and the dress dropped over Pippa’s head and rustled softly as it fell to her feet. There was a small mirror on the wall opposite her; Pippa could see a partial reflection of herself, looking strange and unfamiliar in that dream dress. What was it about a bride that left a romantic glow?

  Mrs Lucas got busy with pins, tucking in her waist a fraction, clicking her tongue. ‘You’ve lost weight again! Another pound, I’d say.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m not dieting, honestly. I can’t think why I’m losing weight.’

  ‘Oh, it often happens to brides. Wedding nerves, rushing around, forgetting to eat; they always seem to lose weight. Don’t worry, I can cope.’

  Her mouth full of pins, she adjusted the set of the lacy bodice from which Pippa’s head rose so vividly, with that frame of bright chestnut hair lit by morning sunlight. Pippa watched her mirrored image with uneasy green eyes. Everything seemed surreal, unlikely—was that really her?

  And if she seemed strange to herself now, she was going to feel much stranger in a week, after her wedding.

  Looking at her watch with a groan, Mrs Lucas got up from her knees. ‘I must go; I’ve got so much to do today. I’ll just take the dress off, Pippa, before you get down. Next time you see it, it will fit you perfectly, I promise. You’re going to be a lovely bride.’

  The silk and lace softly, sibilantly, lifted over her head. Mrs Lucas inserted the dress back onto a hanger inside the plastic carrier in which she had brought it, and zipped up the carrier.

  ‘Have you got time for that coffee?’

  ‘Sorry, no, not really. See you soon.’

  She was gone a moment later. Pippa put her clothes back on and made herself black coffee, sat sipping it, trying to shake off her disturbed and uneasy mood.

  In a week’s time…just a week now…she would be Tom’s wife. She should be radiant, over the moon. A woman’s wedding day was supposed to be the happiest of her life—so why didn’t she feel happy?

  Maybe all brides felt this sense of doom, the fear, the sinking in the pit of the stomach close to nausea? Far from being happy, she had a strong feeling that she was about to make the worst mistake of her life.

  She must stop thinking like that! What was the matter with her? She was going to be happy. She wouldn’t let herself think negative thoughts.

  She went to bed early that evening and was up in good time to get to work. Tom was always there early, and expected her to be early too. Working in an insurance company wasn’t exactly thrilling, but the job paid well and the work was never complicated or difficult.

  Monday was always a calm day; the postbag was light and their workload was easy enough to deal with as they always tried to clear their desks by Friday afternoon, so she was able to go to lunch a little early that day, to give herself time to get to Bond Street, and then hopefully grab a snack before she went back to the office.

  She caught a bus, then walked anxiously, hurriedly, to the bridal shop, relieved to see that the pearl and rose coronet was still in the window. The assistant sat her in a chair in front of a mirror, brought a wedding veil and the coronet for her to try on.

  Pippa gazed at herself, smiling; it really was perfect, just what she wanted.

  ‘You look lovely,’ the assistant told her, and Pippa thought she looked pretty good, too.

  ‘It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for,’ she confessed. ‘I’ll take it.’

  Then the smile went and her eyes widened in horror as she saw a reflection of the street outside behind her shoulders.

  A man stood there, staring at her: tall, elegantly dressed, his black hair brushed and immaculate.

  In the mirror their eyes met. His were fixed and glittering, bright and hot as burning stars. Pippa stared into them, her stomach turning over, grew icy cold and fainted.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHE recovered consciousness slowly, not quite sure what had happened, her lids flickering, then rising; she looked up, her green eyes dazed, not focusing properly.

  Two faces bent over her. The assistant looked anxious, upset. The other…

  Pippa took one look at him and promptly shut her eyes again. She did not want to believe he was real. Surely she wasn’t imagining things, dreaming him up in the oddest places, at the oddest times? Her head buzzed with distressed questions. What was he doing here? Come to that, what had he been doing outside the bridal shop? What was going on? First the accident; now he’d turned up while she was trying on her bridal coronet. What was Fate up to?

  ‘She’s fainted again,’ the assistant said. ‘Oh, dear. Do you think she’s really ill? She’s very pale. Should I ring for an ambulance? Or a doctor?’

  ‘No, I don’t think she’s ill; she’s just playing dead,’ said the deep, cool voice she remembered so well.

  How dared he? What right did he have to read her so accurately? Angrily she opened her eyes once more and glared at him, beginning to get up.

  It didn’t make her any less furious that he helped, as effortlessly as if she weighed no more than a child, lifting her with one arm around her waist, his warm hand just below her breast, the intimacy of the contact making her heart thud painfully.

  ‘Oh…perhaps we shouldn’t move her yet,’ the assistant nervously murmured. ‘She may still be groggy.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be okay. Would you run out and stop that taxi going past? Thanks.’

  Pippa was still being held close to that long, lean body; the proximity was doing drastic things to her, especially when she looked up and sideways at the hard-edged, smooth-skinned, masculine face.

  She heard the other girl’s high heels clipping across the shop and knew she was alone with him. Panic streaked through her; she pushed him away and his arm dropped.

  Those bright eyes gleamed with what she grimly recognised as mockery. So he was finding the situation funny, was he? Her teeth met.

  ‘Feeling better now?’ he enquired softly.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Her voice was cold and remote, hiding the rage she felt although she suspected he wasn’t missing it; his argument was open, unhidden.

  The shop assistant rushed back, breathlessly said, ‘The taxi’s waiting.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He looked at Pippa. ‘Maybe you should take the veil off before we go?’

  ‘We’ go? she thought. She wasn’t going anywhere with him.

  But the assistant came to help her. ‘So, did you want the coronet?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Pippa fumbled in her bag, found her credit card and held it out.

  The assistant offered her the payment slip a moment later and she signed it, then took back her card and put it away, very slowly and carefully, deliberately delaying in the hope that he might go outside to talk to the taxi driver.

  She might then have a chance to escape, run off down the road, but he waited beside her, perhaps anticipating her intention. Finally she had to leave the shop, as they walked out on to the pavement he held her elbow lightly, propelled her towards the taxi.

  ‘I don’t want to…’ she breathed.

  ‘You might faint again; we can’t have that.’ He smiled, lifting her into the back of the taxi.

  She couldn’t quite catch what he said to the driver before climbing in beside her, but before she could ask him the taxi set off with a jerk which almost made her tumble forward on to the floor.

  ‘Do up your seat belt,’ she was ordered, and her companion leaned over to drag the belt across her shoulder and down to her waist, clip it into place, his long fingers brushing her thigh. He had a fresh, outdoor scent: pine, she decided, inhaling it. She wished he would stop invading her body space. It was far too disturbing.

  ‘Where did you tell the driver to go?’ she asked huskily as he sat back, not meeting the eyes that watched her as if he could read her every thought.

  ‘I feel it’s time we had a private chat. I told him to take us to my hotel. Have you had lunch?’

  Agitated, she protested, ‘I’m not going to your hotel! I have to g
et back to work.’

  ‘You can ring and tell them you’ve been taken ill,’ he dismissed. ‘Have you had lunch?’

  ‘Yes,’ she lied, and received one of his dry, mocking glances.

  ‘Where? You came out of your office, caught a bus and went straight to that shop. Where could you have had lunch?’

  ‘You’ve been following me? Spying on me? How dare you? You had no right,’ she spluttered, very flushed now. ‘Were you on the bus? I didn’t see you.’

  ‘No, I followed in a taxi, then walked behind you along Bond Street.’

  She thought harder, forehead wrinkled. ‘How did you know where I worked?’

  ‘Your fiancé told me where he worked, so I rang up and asked the switchboard if you worked there, too.’

  Simple when you know how, she thought; she should have guessed he would track her down if he wanted to, but she hadn’t thought he would want to.

  ‘They tried to put me through, but someone in your office said you had just left, were going shopping in your lunch hour. I was ringing on my mobile from the foyer of the building. A minute later I saw you come out of the lift so I followed.’

  She was speechless. He made it sound perfectly normal to follow people around, spy on them—nothing to get excited about. But she was so furious she couldn’t even get a word out.

  He gave her a wry grin, eyes teasing. ‘Stop glaring at me. I had to see you. You knew that, from the minute his car crashed into mine. You knew we had to meet again, that we have a lot to talk about.’

  ‘We have nothing to talk about! I don’t want to talk to you at all. I just want to get back to my office and forget you exist.’

  But she was so nervous that she put up a shaky hand to brush stray strands of bright hair away from her cheek, aware that he watched the tiny movement with those intent, glittering eyes.

  ‘And you think you can do that, Pippa?’ he drawled, moving even closer so that their bodies touched.

  She couldn’t bear the contact, shifted away into the corner, body tense and shuddering.