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Dating Her Boss
Liz Fielding
Reclusive widower Max Fleming needs a new secretary. Plain-Jane Jilly Prescott seems perfect. And she's hardly likely to fall for him when she's still pining for her old boyfriend. Max has even offered to help Jilly get her man!The plan seems simple: with a new haircut, a new wardrobe and sexy tycoon Max on her arm to escort her to the hottest parties, Jilly's bound to attract the attention of her old flame. But "dating" Jilly is giving Max all sorts of ideas. None of which involve handing Jilly over to another man!


“Your carriage awaits, my lady,” Max Fleming said, with a bow. “Cinderella shall go to the ball.”
“Oh, right,” Jilly said. “And who are you supposed to be? Prince Charming?”
“Isn’t that supposed to be Rich Blake’s role?” he replied, offering her his arm.
She pulled a face. “Richie? He wouldn’t know how. But if you’re not Prince Charming, who are you?”
He tutted. “You don’t recognize me without my wand?”
She laughed. “You’re my fairy godmother?”
“Godfather.”
She laughed again. “You look more like the demon king.”
“Wrong story.”
She turned her head to look at him. “Maybe.” But with his silver-streaked hair, suntanned face and dark eyes, Max Fleming looked thoroughly dangerous.
Dear Reader,
Welcome to the latest book in our MARRYING THE BOSS miniseries. Over the following months, some of your favorite Harlequin Romance® authors will be bringing you a variety of tantalizing stories about love in the workplace!
Falling for the boss can mean trouble, so our gorgeous heroes and lively heroines all struggle to resist their feelings of attraction for each other. But somehow love always ends up top of the agenda. And it isn’t just a nine-to-five affair…Mixing business with pleasure carries on after hours—and ends in marriage!
Happy reading!
The Editors
Taming the Boss by Pamela Bauer and Judy Kaye
Harlequin Romance
#3598
Dating Her Boss
Liz Fielding


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u17ec394e-975c-5cf8-8d05-b301836132b7)
CHAPTER TWO (#u9861ed5c-22d7-5a9c-8e66-d4830bc86edd)
CHAPTER THREE (#uf704e9b9-63db-56a2-b50e-bf9705079aed)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE
MAXIM FLEMING was irritable. Seriously irritable. And his sister, at the other end of the telephone line, was being left in no doubt of that fact.
‘All I’m asking you to do is find me a temporary secretary, Amanda. I’m not being difficult…’ he ignored the hoot of derision from the other end of the line ‘…I just want a girl who knows what she’s doing.’
‘Max—’
Her attempt to stall his complaint was brushed impatiently aside. ‘Is that such a problem?’
‘Max. Darling—’
He continued to ignore the slight warning beneath the honeyed tone of her voice. ‘Someone who can type accurately, take a little shorthand—’
‘Your idea of a little shorthand does not coincide with mine or any of the perfectly competent secretaries I have already sent you,’ she broke in sharply. Then she gave a little sigh. ‘Not many girls do shorthand seriously these days, Max…’ At least not the kind of girls she had sent to her brother, but then she and Max had entirely different agendas—a fact she suspected he had discovered for himself. But she wasn’t admitting a thing. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to haul yourself into the twentieth century and use a dictaphone?’
‘Is this an admission that the famous Garland Agency isn’t able to provide a competent secretary?’
His tone was rich with irony. He definitely knew. But Amanda refused to rise to her tormenting brother’s jibe. ‘I didn’t say that, Max. But you’ll have to give me time. Your standards are so high—’
‘I haven’t got time and Garland Girls are supposed to be the best,’ he reminded her crisply. ‘I’m quite willing to pay top rates for a secretary who can type accurately and take dictation a fraction faster than the speed she can write in longhand. Surely that’s not too much to ask from London’s pre-eminent secretarial agency?’
‘And your temper is so short,’ she completed, ignoring his question. ‘You’ve been through some of the best secretaries in London in the space of a fortnight.’
‘Best!’ He left unsaid the obvious comment that, if they were the best she could offer, he never wanted to be within shouting distance of the worst.
‘I have had not one word of complaint, nothing in fact but the highest praise for my girls from anyone else.’ Which was true, but then she hadn’t been mixing work with matchmaking for her other clients.
Max Fleming made a distinctly disparaging noise. ‘Your public relations does you credit, I’ll give you that. You’ve got every executive in London panting for one of the fabulous Garland Girls. They’re a status symbol, the “must have” in every chief executive’s penthouse office. They look good, they sound good and they mesmerise the men they pretend to work for into thinking they’re privileged to employ them. Well, I’m not impressed by glamour—give me substance every time. Someone with a bit of grit in her character.’
Good grief—she might have chosen the girls for their looks and charm rather than their skills, but they hadn’t been that bad. ‘Nonsense. Admit it, Max, you’re the problem here. Why should my girls put up with your bad temper and your unreasonable working hours?’
‘For the money, sweet sister? Or have you simply been giving them the opportunity to have a crack at mending my broken heart?’
‘You don’t have a heart.’
‘You know that and I know that, but if you can find a girl who can manage a decent rate of shorthand I might be prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice.’ He paused. ‘At least until Laura’s mother has recovered sufficiently for her to come back to work. I don’t care what she looks like and I certainly don’t give a damn who she went to school with—’
‘Max Fleming, you have got to be the most impossible, infuriating—’
‘I know,’ he said, cutting her off in full flow. ‘My faults are legion. If I promise to try and reform will you send me someone competent? Just for a few days while I finish this report for the World Bank?’
‘I should leave you to type it yourself with two fingers, then you wouldn’t be so—’
‘Or are you going to admit defeat?’
‘It’ll take more than you to bring me to that, big brother. I’ll have someone with you tomorrow. But this is your last chance. If this one walks out on you, you’re on your own.’ Amanda Garland frowned as she hung up, then turned to her own secretary. ‘What on earth am I going to do with him, Beth?’
‘Stop playing matchmaker and offer the poor man a competent secretary?’ she said with a grin. ‘Although where you are going to find someone who can take shorthand at the speed of light by tomorrow could be harder than getting him back to the altar. We’re booked solid.’
‘Didn’t we have a CV the other day from a girl in Newcastle? She had some incredible speed.’
‘Mmm. Jilly Prescott. You said that she didn’t have the look to be a Garland Girl, Amanda,’ she said doubtfully, glancing at the photograph as she passed over the girl’s CV.
‘My brother has had his quota of Garland Girls for this year. He’s going to have to take what he can get.’
Beth looked unconvinced. ‘She’s awfully young. He’ll chew her up and spit her out before lunchtime.’
‘Maybe.’ Amanda Garland was thoughtful. ‘Maybe not. He thinks our girls are more concerned with image than effort—’
‘That’s because you will send him all the pretty ones—’
‘Well, he won’t be able to say that about Jilly Prescott.’ She regarded the photograph of a very ordinary-looking young woman with a mop of thick dark hair that would stuff a mattress. ‘He wants someone with grit in her character.’ She glanced at Beth. ‘Northern women are supposed to be gritty, aren’t they?’
‘If you think he’ll come to heel like a puppy, Amanda, you don’t know your brother as well as you think you do.’
‘It’s worth a try.’ And her mouth softened into a smile at the thought of what a little grit might do, cast into the smoothly oiled wheels of her brother’s life. She tossed the photograph back at her secretary. ‘Check out her references. If they hold up, call her and tell her to be here first thing tomorrow morning.’
Jilly Prescott dialled her cousin’s number. It rang three times before an answering machine cut in with, ‘Hi, this is Gemma. I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number I’ll call you back.’
‘Bother!’ Jilly pushed back an untidy wedge of dark hair from her forehead.
‘Problems, pet?’ her mother enquired, hovering anxiously in the doorway, making sure Jilly didn’t chatter. She hated anyone making long distance calls.
‘No. I’ve got her answering machine, that’s all,’ she replied, waiting for the familiar beep. ‘Gemma, this is Jilly. If you’re there please pick up the phone, it’s urgent.’ She waited for a moment on the off chance that her cousin might just be at home—willing her to be at home. Why did Gemma have to be out tonight of all nights? She continued, ‘I’m just calling to tell you I’ve got a job in London and I’m catching the early morning train into King’s Cross. I’ll call you when I get to London.’ She hung up and turned to her mother. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she said, with more confidence than she was feeling. ‘She said I could stay any time.’
Her mother looked doubtful. ‘I don’t know, Jilly. What if she’s away?’
‘Of course she isn’t away—it’s January, where would she go in January? She’s out shopping, I expect. She’ll call back later and even if she doesn’t I’ve got her office number. It’ll be all right, honestly.’ The Garland Agency was the best in London and it wanted her. It wanted her tomorrow and who knew when she would get another chance like this? ‘I’d better get on with my packing.’
‘I’ll go and run an iron over your best blouse, then,’ Mrs Prescott said. Jilly knew her mother didn’t want her leaving home, certainly not to stay with Gemma, and keeping busy was her way of hiding it, which was why Jilly didn’t point out that she was more than capable of ironing her own blouse. ‘Heaven knows what you’ll look like when you have to take care of yourself.’
‘I’ll manage.’
‘Will you?’
‘I’ve been ironing my own clothes since I was ten, Mum.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’ She paused. ‘Just promise me that if anything goes wrong, if Gemma can’t put you up, you’ll come straight home.’
‘But—’
‘There are always other jobs, Jilly,’ she said, and waited. A promise given to her mother was not something to be undertaken lightly. If she promised to come home, she would have to do just that. But, after all, what could possibly go wrong?
‘I promise, Mum.’
There was an awkward little silence. Then, ‘I suppose you’ll be looking up Richie Blake?’
‘I expect so.’ As if they didn’t both know that it was the one reason she wanted to go to London.
‘Yes, well, he’s a big man now. He might not want to be reminded of home.’
‘We were friends, Mum. Good friends.’ She still remembered the moment she had first set eyes on him, a pathetic new boy, small for his age, with white-blond hair and glasses held together with sticky tape. A bunch of bigger lads had been giving him a hard time and, despite the fact that she was a year or so younger than him, she’d rounded on them, given them a piece of her mind, standing over him like a mother hen with its feathers all ruffled.
After that she’d been stuck with him. Maybe that was why she’d seen more in him than most. Something special.
She’d been the one who had persuaded the PTA to hire him as a DJ for the Christmas dance; she’d sent photos of him to the local papers so he’d get some free publicity; she’d got her brothers to make posters on their computer, made recordings of the crazy patter with which he linked his shows and bombarded the local radio station with them until they’d given him a spot on a youth programme for little more than pocket money.
And she’d loaned him the money for his fare to London when he’d had a phone call offering him a ‘jock’ spot on one of the capital’s commercial stations.
‘You’re a great kid, Jilly,’ he’d said, as she’d stood by the train, waiting for it to pull out of the station, wishing she were going with him. ‘You’re the only one who’s ever believed in me. My best girl. I won’t forget you, I promise.’
‘You are extremely lucky to get a chance like this, Jilly.’ Amanda Garland sounded doubtful.
She wasn’t the only one having doubts, but Jilly’s had nothing to do with her ability to do the job. That wasn’t worrying her at all. What worried her was that Gemma hadn’t been in touch. And although Jilly had called her cousin from the station when she’d arrived in London she’d still only got the answering machine despite the fact that it had been the time of day when a working girl, no matter how late she’d been out the night before, should have been hauling herself out of bed.
And now, as if that wasn’t enough to be going on with, she was faced by a woman who, having brought her post-haste all the way from Newcastle, appeared to be having second thoughts about giving her the promised job. Clearly her beautifully ironed blouse—she’d changed at the station from the jeans and sweatshirt she’d travelled in—was not making the kind of impression her mother had imagined it would. But in this sharp, glossy world anything she was wearing would look shabby.
She had done her best to portray the image of a smart, efficient, well-groomed secretary—as well groomed as a mop of hair that hadn’t really been cut since she was ten years old would allow. She’d screwed it into a French pleat and anchored the loose strands with combs, but she could feel it threatening to burst loose even as she sat there.
It had worked well enough back home—certainly impressed the solicitor she had been working for until he’d retired a few weeks earlier—but in the glamorous world of Knightsbridge she looked exactly what she was: an ordinary girl from an ordinary little town in the industrial north-east. It would take more than a neatly pressed cotton blouse and chain store suit to disguise the fact.
She might have done better to have worn a pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt, her hair in a pigtail—that at least was a classic any girl could aspire to. Except the woman who faced her across a vast acreage of immaculately tidy desk, her jet hair glossy, small white hands the perfect setting for the king’s ransom of diamonds she was wearing on her fingers, undoubtedly wore designer jeans—the ones with the label stitched on the outside so you’d know how expensive they were. Jilly’s, on the other hand, came from the sort of shops where, if you wanted to preserve any kind of street cred, you cut out the labels before you wore them.
Nobody was fooled but it avoided catty put-downs such as, ‘I only buy my knickers from that place’ and you just knew the cat in question meant her everyday knickers—not the sort she’d wear on a really hot date. Or, even worse, the teeth-curlingly awful, ‘Good grief, my mother shops there…’
And now Amanda Garland of the Garland Agency was looking down her long, straight nose in a way that suggested she couldn’t quite believe that she had offered Jilly Prescott a job of any kind—no matter how brilliant she might be on paper.
Actually, now she was sitting in a thick-carpeted, soft-focus office opposite the kind of high-powered woman she associated with glossy American soaps, Jilly couldn’t quite believe it either.
She’d checked out the quality dailies at her local public library and made a list of secretarial agencies offering temporary work in London, then sent off her CV in the hope that someone would be impressed enough by her qualifications to give her a chance. After all, her qualifications were pretty impressive.
Now she was here, though, she had a sinking feeling that she was way out of her league. Only her stubborn Geordie pride refused to admit to the possibility that she might be second best in anything, stopped her from walking out right now. That, and Richie. The thought of him, of what he had achieved with nothing to commend him but cheek, a hard push and a following wind was more than enough to stiffen her resolve. Anything he could do…
‘Extremely lucky.’ Amanda Garland was beginning to irritate her. Luck, Jilly thought, mentally squaring her shoulders, had nothing to do with it. It had been sheer hard work.
There was nothing like a Royal Society of Arts Grade Three Typewriting Certificate with ‘Distinction’ to make even the Amanda Garlands of this world sit up and take notice, although Jilly knew that it was the infinitely rarer certificate, the one that promised she could effortlessly take down a hundred and sixty words per minute in faultless shorthand and transcribe it with equal ease, that had got her this far.
Of course Ms Garland had insisted on testing her anyway, just in case those desirable pieces of paper might have been the product of a bit of smart work with a home computer. Actually her brothers could probably have done a pretty convincing job if she had needed them to, so she didn’t blame the woman for that. She just wished she wouldn’t keep saying how lucky she was.
‘Well, I won’t keep you. I’ve told Max that you’ll start this morning. Have you got somewhere to stay, Jilly?’ she asked, glancing at the suitcase Jilly had brought with her.
‘I’m staying with my cousin until I can find somewhere of my own. Actually, I need to call her and let her know I’ve arrived—’ She had been about to ask if she could use the telephone, but she was already being ushered towards the door and she let it go.
Amanda Garland paused in the doorway. ‘I’d better warn you, Jilly, that Max is a very demanding employer and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly.’ So? The question must have been written all over her face because the woman went on, ‘He’s desperate and he needs someone with really good shorthand, or…’ The doubt was there again.
‘Or?’ Jilly repeated.
The other woman’s brows rose a fraction at her directness. ‘Or frankly I wouldn’t have considered you for the position.’
‘Well, that is frank of you,’ Jilly replied, tired of being looked down on. The woman could keep her job. There were hundreds of other agencies in London and it suddenly occurred to her that, if the Garland Agency was prepared to bring her all the way from Newcastle because of her shorthand speed, she might just be in a buyer’s market. ‘Are my clothes that bad?’ she enquired, with that native pertness for which her part of England was famous. ‘Or is it my accent that’s the problem?’
At home everybody thought she talked ‘posh’, but Jilly knew better. Despite the fact that her mother had insisted on elocution lessons with an actress who had been ‘resting’ ever since the war—which war no one had ever dared enquire—she was well aware that her voice still betrayed its origins.
Ms Garland’s eyes widened slightly and her lips twitched in what might have been amusement. ‘You’re very direct, Jilly.’
‘I find it helps if you want people to know what you think. What do you think, Ms Garland?’
‘I think…I think that perhaps you’ll do, Jilly.’ And finally the creases about her eyes and mouth defined a genuine smile. ‘And don’t worry about your accent—Max won’t. He’ll only notice how well you do your job. I’m afraid my brother can be a bit of a monster to work for and to be honest I’d be happier if you were older. I’m rather tossing you in at the deep end.’
Her brother? Jilly felt her cheeks heat up. Amanda Garland was trusting her to work for her brother? ‘Oh,’ she said. Then, ‘I thought—’ Then with a sudden grin, ‘Don’t worry, Ms Garland, I’m a pretty good swimmer. Gold medal. Life-saving certificate.’ Her smile came easily. ‘And as for my age, well, I’m getting older by the minute.’
Amanda Garland laughed. ‘Just keep that sense of humour and take no nonsense from Max. If he shouts at you…well, just be, um, direct.’
‘Don’t worry, I will. And I find that when men get particularly difficult, imagining them naked helps a lot.’ Amanda’s laughter turned into a fit of coughing. ‘How long is he likely to need me?’ Jilly asked when Amanda had recovered sufficiently to answer.
‘His personal assistant is away looking after her sick mother and frankly we have no idea how long that will be.’ Her face became grave. ‘Several weeks at least, I should think, but don’t worry—if you can work for Max you can work for anyone and with your qualifications I won’t have any trouble placing you.’
‘Oh, right. Well, thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me yet. Just remember what I said about standing up for yourself. And take a taxi. I don’t want you getting lost between here and Kensington.’
‘I’ve got an A to Z—’ she began.
‘I said take a taxi, Jilly. I promised Max you’d get there today, not at the convenience of London Transport. I’ll call him and let him know that you’re on the way.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Go!’ As Jilly still hesitated she said, ‘This is an emergency! Get a receipt and give it to Max—he’ll pay.’
Jilly didn’t stop to argue. No one had ever wanted her badly enough to pay for a taxi before—if this was working in London it was no wonder Gemma was having such a good time. She picked up her suitcase and, holding the agency card with Max Fleming’s address on it, she retreated swiftly to the pavement to hail one of the famous black London taxis.
She’d seen it done on the films and on television a thousand times but could hardly believe she was doing it herself as, clutching her suitcase, she stepped out into the street, stuck her hand in the air and yelled ‘Taxi!’
To her astonishment a cruising cab-driver executed a neat U-turn in the centre of the street, pulled up beside her and opened the door from the inside. It worked! She climbed aboard and sat back, grinning broadly. It had been a shaky start, but she was actually beginning to enjoy herself.
The taxi came to halt outside an elegant house tucked away behind a high wall in a discreet garden square in Kensington. ‘Here we are, miss,’ the driver said, opening the door for her. She paid him what he asked and then boldly added a tip. He grinned at her. ‘Thanks. Do you want a receipt?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes. Thanks for reminding me, I’m not used to this.’ She took the slip of paper he handed her and turned to the black-painted gate set into the wall and pressed the bell.
‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice enquired from a small speaker.
‘Jilly Prescott,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m from the Garland Agency.’
‘Thank goodness. Come in.’
A buzzer sounded and she pushed the gate open. She had no time to stare up at the elegant façade of Max Fleming’s home, or take in more than the briefest impression of his elegantly paved garden, the stone urns planted with evergreens, a small bronze statue of a nymph tucked into a wall niche above a semi-circular pool.
The grey-haired woman who had answered the bell was standing in the open doorway beckoning impatiently. ‘Come along, Miss Prescott, Max is waiting for you.’ She led the way through a spacious hall, passed a curving staircase and paused at a wide panelled door. ‘Go straight in,’ she said.
Jilly found herself on the threshold of a small panelled office. Beyond it an inner door was open and she could hear the low growl of a masculine voice apparently speaking on the telephone since she could hear only one person.
She dropped her suitcase beside the desk, slipped off her gloves and jacket and glanced around her. On the desk were two telephones, an intercom, a partly used shorthand notebook and a pot full of sharpened pencils. Behind it on a custom-built workbench were a state-of-the-art PC and printer. She wondered what software package was installed and, retrieving her spectacles from her handbag, propped them on her nose and leaned forward to switch it on.
‘Harriet!’ The disembodied voice had apparently finished with his telephone call and Jilly abandoned the computer, retrieved the notebook from the desk, grabbed a handful of pencils and, swiftly tucking in a slither of hair that was hell-bent on escape from her French pleat, she pushed open the inner door. Max Fleming was standing at the window looking out over the wintry garden and he didn’t look round. ‘Hasn’t that damned girl arrived yet?’ he demanded.
Jilly’s first impression of Max Fleming was that he was too thin; too thin for his height and too thin for the width of his shoulders. It was an impression that seemed to be confirmed by the way his suit jacket hung loosely about him as if he had lost a considerable amount of weight since it had been made for him. But his hair was dark like his sister’s, and, like hers, wonderfully thick and beautifully cut, the darkness only emphasised by a streak of silver at his temple.
That was all she had time to notice before he banged on the floor irritably with a slender ebony cane upon which he had been leaning. Then he half turned and caught sight of her. For a moment he said nothing, simply stared as if he couldn’t believe his own eyes.
‘Who the devil are you?’ he demanded.
It would have been so easy to be intimidated, Jilly thought. His sister had already warned her that he could be a monster and, looking into a pair of eyes that glittered at her darkly out of his thin face, she believed it. And as they swept over her she recognised the moment for what it was. If she showed the slightest hint of nervousness under the challenge in those hard eyes she might as well turn around and walk out right now because he would take advantage of that weakness and run her ragged. What was it his sister had said? If he shouted at her, be direct.
‘I guess I’m your damned girl,’ she said, as directly as she knew how, and stared right back at him. She might be the wrong side of her twenty-first birthday, just, but she had never been scared of playground bullies and she certainly wasn’t going to crumple now. For a moment the room was shockingly silent. Then Jilly, having demonstrated that she wasn’t to be intimidated, pushed her spectacles up her nose and offered a truce. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, but the traffic was terrible. I wanted to come by underground but Ms Garland said I should take a taxi.’
One arched brow rose a fraction. ‘Did she say anything else?’
Plenty, but she wasn’t about to repeat it. ‘That you would pay the fare?’ she offered.
‘Did she, indeed?’ She’d hoped for a laugh, or at least a softening of that hard mouth into something approaching a smile. She didn’t get it. Nor, she discovered, could she reduce this austere man to a mental laughing stock with a picture of him naked. Imagining Max Fleming naked wouldn’t work at all, she decided as her cheeks, and just about everything else, heated up under the continued intensity of his unsparing gaze. It was as if he were looking right through to her bones, assessing what she was made of, and for just a second or two her determination not to be outfaced wavered.
‘Well, someone will have to because I can’t afford to go gallivanting about in taxis,’ she said, determinedly forcing herself back onto the offensive. And she crossed what seemed like an acre of exquisite oriental carpet to place a small slip of paper on his desk. ‘That’s the receipt. I’ll leave you to sort it out between you.’
Max Fleming’s first thought was that she couldn’t possibly be one of Amanda’s sought-after Garland Girls. She lacked any trace of the style and the exquisite grooming for which they were so justly famous. She wasn’t even pretty. Her eyes were hidden behind the owlish glasses, but her nose was too big and so was her mouth. Wide, full and simply bursting to smile given the slightest encouragement. And as for her hair…milk-chocolate brown, it was beginning to slide untidily from the combs doing an inefficient job of anchoring up the strands which refused to comply with her regulation French pleat. Then there were her clothes…
She was dressed in a neat white blouse and a plain grey skirt of undistinguished origin that stopped demurely just above her knee—an ensemble that suggested a school uniform. Then he realised it didn’t remind him of a school uniform, she was far too tidy for that; what she reminded him of was an old-fashioned secretary, right down to the heavy tortoiseshell spectacle frames…
And suddenly it all became clear.
His sister was having a little joke at his expense, a little pay-back for all the trouble he had caused her. Any minute now this girl would fling off the spectacles, pull out the combs battling to hold her hair in place and reveal herself for what she undoubtedly was: a sexy-secretary kissogram.
Clearly impatient with his thoughtful scrutiny, the girl finally said, ‘Are you ready to begin, Mr Fleming?’ He was certain that whatever he said would set the whole wretched performance in motion, and there had been a time when he would have enjoyed the joke… ‘Your sister said you were desperate—’
Desperate. Desolate. Empty. All of those things.
‘It would appear that my sister has been more than usually garrulous.’ But even if she was, as always, right, he could have told her that this wasn’t going to help. He was beginning to think that nothing would ever help.
He pushed that depressing thought firmly away and concentrated on the girl. Was she an actress, down on her luck? Unlikely. An actress would have taken more trouble to excise any hint of an accent; an actress would have looked just a little more the part. This girl had to be a student of some kind making a little money to see her through her studies.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Jilly Prescott.’
Jilly. Hardly a name for a grown woman and yet she was clearly that. Beneath the cheap tailoring there was the kind of old-fashioned hourglass figure only emphasised by the kind of waist that invited a man to span it with his hands if he felt so inclined.
Max frowned as the thought took hold. Then he shrugged, irritated by this further waste of his time even while prepared to admit that he’d asked for it. He knew he was difficult to work for and doubtless Amanda was sick to death of him and his demands for perfection; she was almost certainly outside in the hall at this minute, along with all the girls he had sent packing in the last two weeks, waiting to burst in and have a good laugh at his expense.
It was only that thought that stopped him from sending the girl on her way. No show, no pay and anyone who did this on a regular basis must be desperate for the money. He would just have to take his punishment like a man and then, maybe, Amanda would relent and produce the secretary she had promised.
And maybe in future he would remember to be more patient.
Maybe.
‘Very well, Jilly,’ he said abruptly. He might have to put up with it, but he didn’t have to like it. ‘Let’s get on with it. I haven’t got all day.’
He was holding himself rigid, gripping the cane top with his left hand, dreading the performance to come, but, instead of pulling the combs from her hair to let it cascade over her shoulders in the way he had expected, Jilly settled herself on the chair in front of his desk, arranged a row of pencils before her, selected one and, with it poised above her notebook, she looked up.
‘I’m ready, Mr Fleming,’ she said. Then she pushed her spectacles up her nose again and finally allowed her mouth to lift into a cautious smile, the kind one might offer a tiger with an uncertain temper. ‘Whenever you are.’

CHAPTER TWO
FOR a moment Max stood mesmerised by the smile. It did something to her mouth, something unexpectedly sexy so that for a moment he couldn’t quite take in what was happening, that she was sitting in front of his desk with a notebook poised ready for dictation.
She was genuine?
Still not quite believing it, Max crossed to the door and checked the hall. It was empty. ‘Harriet!’
His housekeeper appeared from the direction of the kitchen. ‘Yes, Max?’
‘Did Jilly Prescott arrive alone?’
‘Yes. Were you expecting someone else? You didn’t say—’
‘And no one else has turned up in the last few minutes—my sister, for instance?’
‘Amanda?’ she asked. ‘Why? Are you expecting her? Will she be staying for lunch?’
‘No, but—’ She was looking at him a little oddly and, realising that he wasn’t making much sense, he shook his head. ‘No, I’m not expecting anyone. Just bring in some coffee, will you?’ He turned to Jilly. ‘You would like some coffee, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes, please.’ She knew from experience that the chance of drinking it while it was hot was so small as to be incalculable, but her day had started long before dawn and even cold coffee would be welcome. She glanced at the ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after eleven. She hoped her stomach wouldn’t rumble before she could eat the one remaining chocolate bar in her bag.
Max, returning to his office, noticed her suitcase, her jacket flung over the back of a chair. Genuine. Maybe. They would see.
He returned to his desk, propped his cane against it and lowered himself into his chair before picking up a sheaf of notes.
Across his desk, up close, Jilly realised that he was younger than she had originally thought. The greying temples, the pared-down bony features, had at first glance suggested he was nearing forty, but now she could see that he was younger than that—quite how much younger it was difficult to tell. Had he been ill? Or had it been an accident that had whittled the weight from him and left him walking with a cane? She didn’t have time to give the matter any thought before he began dictating.
Max began dictating slowly, but he realised after a few minutes that she was keeping up with him without any difficulty—actually appeared to be waiting for him. ‘Will you read that back, Jilly?’ he asked. He still wasn’t convinced of her probity and if this was some silly game his sister was playing with him he would prefer to know sooner, rather than later.
She read back everything he had dictated without hesitation, then said, ‘You can go faster if you like. I take a hundred and sixty words a minute.’
He stared at her for a moment. ‘Really?’
Jilly heard the disbelief in his voice. Didn’t he trust his own sister? ‘Honest,’ she said. And just to emphasise the point she slowly drew a cross over her heart.
Max swallowed, hard. In another woman that gesture would have been blatantly sexual, but he had already been so far off right about this girl that he didn’t know what to think. ‘Amazing,’ he muttered, and he wasn’t entirely certain whether it was her shorthand speed or the girl herself who had provoked the word. But there had to be a drawback. ‘Can you type?’ he asked, suddenly suspicious.
‘There wouldn’t be much point if I couldn’t,’ she replied simply. Her face was solemn but a pair of perplexed brown eyes were regarding him through those large spectacle frames. She was puzzled at his caution and why wouldn’t she be? ‘Would there?’ she pressed.
‘I suppose not,’ he said, disconcerted to discover that he wanted to apologise for doubting her. He rejected the idea out of hand—she still had to prove herself. Instead he continued dictating a complicated report, quite steadily at first, then faster, and finally at a speed that should have left her begging for mercy, that if he was honest with himself he intended should have her begging for mercy. She kept pace without apparent effort, her small hand flying over her notepad without the slightest hesitation even when he relayed long strings of calculations or foreign names, and he found himself going ever faster in an effort to have her call a halt. She didn’t.
‘That’s it for now,’ he said irritably. Which was ridiculous. He’d asked for someone efficient and apparently that was exactly what he’d got. The fact that she had the impudence to poke a little fun at him was something he could live with. At least she didn’t fidget with her hair; she seemed blissfully unaware that it was threatening to descend untidily about her ears. ‘How long will it take you to type that?’
‘That depends on the software installed on your computer.’ He told her what it was. ‘No problem, I’ve used that before.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I should be done by three.’
Now she was just being ridiculous. ‘I’d rather have it accurate than rushed,’ he said.
Jilly didn’t bother to argue. ‘Five past three, then,’ she said, taking off her spectacles and rising to her feet. She paused in the doorway and looked back at him. ‘I’ll use the extra five minutes to make a cup of tea. The coffee has gone cold.’ Max stared at her. Garland Girls didn’t make tea. But then Jilly Prescott clearly wasn’t a Garland Girl. Not by a country mile. Where on earth had his sister found her? ‘I’ll make one for you too, if you like,’ she offered when he didn’t move.
‘No,’ he began. Then, ‘No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. And if you ask Harriet, my housekeeper, she’ll make you whatever you want.’ Then as the clock on the mantelpiece began to chime the hour he continued, ‘In fact since it appears to be lunchtime she’ll make you a sandwich or something, too. You started late so you won’t mind working straight through, will you?’
‘Not at all,’ she said, and Max Fleming was disconcerted to discover that he was quite unable to tell whether she was simply being polite or whether she was being just the smallest bit ironic. ‘I did wonder what I’d do for lunch,’ she added. ‘Working through certainly solves that problem.’ Ironic. Definitely ironic.
She went through to her own office and Max followed her. ‘Where are you from, Jilly?’ Max asked, and immediately regretted his curiosity. He wasn’t in the least bit interested in where she had come from. She was just a temp for heaven’s sake. Here today, gone tomorrow—at least if the last two weeks were anything to judge by…
‘Can’t you tell?’ Her eyes sparkled as she looked back at him. Now she had removed her spectacles he could see that they were like the rest of her, just a little too large for her face, but quite unabashed by his scowl they were brimming with laughter, bringing his train of thought crashing to a halt. Hadn’t Amanda warned this girl that he was a bad-tempered ogre who had been going through temps faster than the average person went through a page-a-day calendar? ‘Ms Garland gave me the impression that she could cut my accent with a knife,’ she continued cheekily, ‘and serve it up in wedges with clotted cream.’
‘Amanda was exaggerating.’ Jilly’s accent was elusive, not something to be cut, but spooned like warm honey over toast… ‘But somewhere north of Watford, I’d guess,’ he continued rapidly, disconcerted at the direction his mind seemed to be taking.
That was very nearly a joke, Jilly thought. ‘Then you’d guess right. Home is somewhere no one has ever heard of, but it’s near enough to Newcastle as makes no difference. Which reminds me, would it be possible to use your telephone? I’ll pay for the call.’
Pay? She was offering to pay for a phone call? He was beginning to doubt his hearing. For the past two weeks Amanda’s Garland Girls, with their designer clothes and perfectly rounded vowels, had been treating his telephone as if it had been installed for their own personal convenience.
‘I’m supposed to be staying with my cousin but she doesn’t know I’ve arrived yet,’ she continued confidingly. Then, ‘At least, she might do—I did leave a message on her answering machine…’ She gave a little shrug as if suddenly aware that she had been running on.
‘But you’d like to be sure?’
‘Well, the thing is, I rang from the station first thing this morning. When I arrived. I mean, it was early. Really early. I thought she’d be there.’
‘And she wasn’t.’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps she was out.’
‘At that time in the morning?’
Innocent or what? he thought. Well, it wasn’t up to him to suggest what her cousin might have been up to. ‘Jogging, perhaps,’ he suggested drily.
‘It’s a possibility,’ she agreed, but not with any conviction. ‘Anyway, I thought it might be better to wait a while and call her at work. I would have called from a box, but Ms Garland said you were—’
‘Desperate?’ A delicate pink suffused her cheeks as he filled in the word that she was suddenly unwilling to repeat, a delightful blush that turned this rather bold young woman into something a whole lot more vulnerable. ‘I was,’ he found himself admitting. ‘I am.’ Then because, as the target of those large brown eyes, he felt more than a little vulnerable himself, he continued abruptly, ‘But you’d better call your cousin before you start. I don’t want your mind wandering while you’re typing that report.’ He turned to go, then paused. ‘And you’d better ring your family, if you have one. Let them know you’ve arrived safely.’ Good grief, he was beginning to sound like a mother hen. ‘They might be worrying,’ he added more sharply.
‘Might?’ Her eyes fanned into tiny creases at the corners as she finally laughed and a dimple momentarily appeared beneath her cheek. Appeared and then was gone so quickly that he had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch the spot to convince himself that he hadn’t imagined it… ‘My mother will be wearing a track in the carpet pacing up and down waiting to hear how the job worked out.’ Hoping it hadn’t.
‘Then you’d better ring her straight away…before the damage to the carpet is irreparable.’
‘Ah, well, you see, I can’t do that—’
‘Why not?’ He knew he would regret asking the question, but their conversation seemed to be taking on a life of its own.
‘I can’t phone her until I’ve spoken to Gemma. I promised if anything went wrong, if she couldn’t put me up, I’d go straight home.’ She gave a little shrug, little more than a lift of her shoulders. ‘It’s my first time away from home, you see, and she worries.’
He did see. His own mother had worried about him. Still did, probably, but these days she knew better than to voice her concerns. ‘Then let’s hope that your cousin had simply slipped out for a few minutes. If she’s away you’re in big trouble—’
‘Away? In January?’ Jilly was incredulous.
Max followed her glance to the window, to the overcast greyness of a winter day in London. ‘Unbelievable as it may seem, there are places where the sun is still shining.’
‘Expensive places.’
‘Not these days.’ He could see that she considered his idea of expensive and hers were unlikely to coincide. ‘There’s always skiing—’ The word was out before he could stop it. Max had known it was a mistake to get involved. It was always a mistake to get involved.
‘Gemma’s not the athletic type.’
‘Not everyone goes for the exercise,’ he snapped. Then, more gently, because it was hardly this girl’s fault that she’d reminded him of things he longed to forget. ‘Some people are more interested in après-ski.’
And Jilly’s head was suddenly filled with a travel-brochure image of glamorous girls and beefy blond ski instructors sipping glühwein around a roaring log fire in some snowbound mountain chalet. That was much more like Gemma’s idea of fun. ‘But if she’s away I’ll have nowhere to stay,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to go straight back home. I promised—’
‘Not before you’ve typed up that report, I hope—’
It had been an unforgivable thing to say—Max regretted the words before they were out of his mouth—but instead of throwing the notepad at him and telling him to type the damned thing himself, which was what any self-respecting Garland Girl would do, Jilly Prescott tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear and said, ‘No, no, of course not. I’ll get right onto it.’
Max stared after her for a moment. Was she being sarcastic? The question was redundant, of course she wasn’ t…This wasn’t one of Amanda’s usual hard-boiled temps. The girl had just arrived in London, was on her own, vulnerable. And that made him even more irritable. He didn’t need this. How dared Amanda send him a waif from somewhere no one had ever heard of?
He wasn’t interested in her problems. He didn’t want to know. And yet something propelled him after her, urging him to apologise.
But she was already sitting at the computer, her fingers moving swiftly over the keys, wasting no time in starting work. Not even to make her telephone call. He wanted to tell her to do that first, but her back was stiff with pride, as great a barrier to communication as a brick wall.
It wouldn’t have stopped him once, but it seemed that he had lost the gift of kindness, along with everything else…
‘Are you ready for your lunch now, Max?’
He turned to Harriet, waiting in the doorway, watching them both. ‘I’ve been ready for ten minutes,’ he replied coldly. Then, ‘You’d better organise something for Jilly as well.’ Jilly! How could anyone be formal with someone called Jilly? He should have stuck to Miss Prescott. ‘And show her around, make sure she knows where everything is.’
Jilly heard the inner door close and leaned back in her chair, easing her shoulders. She’d slept on the train—she could sleep anywhere—it was tension knotting her muscles, making her feel suddenly weepy. She sniffed, found a handkerchief and blew her nose. Weepy! How ridiculous. She never wept.
It was just that yesterday everything had seemed so simple. Too simple. If only her mother hadn’t made her promise. If only she hadn’t been stupid enough to believe that nothing could go wrong!
She blinked, straightened, tucked her hankie out of sight and forced a smile to her lips as Harriet reappeared with a tray, jumping to her feet to open the inner door for her.
‘Thank you, Miss Prescott.’
‘Oh, please, call me Jilly.’ Harriet nodded and reappeared a moment later. ‘I’ll show you where the cloakroom is, shall I? I expect you’d like to wash your hands before you have something to eat.’
‘I’m sorry to be such a bother. I’d go out but Mr Fleming is in a hurry for this—’
‘Max is always in a hurry,’ she said. ‘Always was. Some men never learn.’ Then, collecting herself, ‘It’s not a bit of trouble, I promise. What would you like?’
‘Oh, anything. What did Mr Fleming have?’ she said, trying to be helpful, make as little work as possible.
‘Smoked salmon. Will that suit you?’
Jilly blinked. Smoked salmon? She’d tried it once, on a cracker, at a retirement party for the solicitor she had worked for since college, and hadn’t been able to quite make up her mind whether she liked it or not. She could scarcely credit that anyone would put it in sandwiches for lunch. ‘Cheese and pickle will do just fine,’ she said firmly.
Harriet’s face creased into a warm smile. ‘I’ll see what I can do. The cloakroom’s this way. Come through to the kitchen when you’re ready—you’ll be more comfortable in there.’
The walls of the cloakroom were lined with creamy marble, there was a thick carpet on the floor, an antique gilded mirror and a pile of matching towels beside a sunken basin. It was a far cry from the lino and cracked mirror of the cloakroom in the office where she had been temping before Christmas. The kind of office she’d be going straight back to unless she got hold of Gemma soon.
Afterwards, when she had dried her hands on one of the soft towels, pinned her hair back into its combs and freshened her lipstick, she went in search of the kitchen.
‘Sit down, make yourself at home,’ Harriet invited.
‘I really should make a start on that report—’
‘Just because Max never leaves his desk doesn’t mean you have to follow his example. Besides, you can’t eat and type at the same time…’ she waved towards a long pine table in a breakfast annexe, inviting her to take a seat ‘…can you?’ Harriet was tall, elegant, her steely grey hair expensively cut; she was a long way from Jilly’s idea of a housekeeper. But then Jilly had never met a housekeeper before.
‘No, I suppose not. But I have to make a couple of phone calls. Mr Fleming said I could.’
‘If they’re personal, why don’t you use my phone? That way you can be sure he won’t disturb you.’ A hint of laughter as she led the way to a door tucked away in the corner of the kitchen suggested that she knew just how disturbing Max Fleming could be. The office was tiny, not much bigger than a cupboard, but there was a desk, a chair, a telephone; everything else was tucked away on shelves that lined the walls and suggested the room might once have been a pantry. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thank you…I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. Mrs—?’
‘Jacobs.’ She smiled as she filled in the missing piece. ‘But, please, just call me Harriet. Everyone does.’
‘Thank you, Harriet.’ But when she got through to Gemma’s office she was told that her cousin was on holiday and wouldn’t be in the office until the end of the month. She sat and stared at the telephone for a moment. Richie was the only other person she knew in London. She hadn’t intended calling him until she was settled, until she could ring him and casually say, ‘Hi, I’m working in London, thought I’d give you a call…’ But this was an emergency and, after all, she was his ‘best girl’. She found the number in her address book and dialled it.
‘Rich Productions.’
‘Can I speak to Richie Blake, please?’
‘Who?’
‘Richie—’ Then she remembered. He was Rich now. Rich Blake, television’s newest and brightest star. ‘Rich Blake,’ she said. ‘This is Jilly Prescott. A friend,’ she added, then wished she hadn’t. It made her sound like some girl he’d met once trying to make it into something more important.
‘Mr Blake is in a meeting.’ The girl’s unhelpful response gave the impression that was exactly what she thought.
‘Then would you give him a message?’ Jilly persisted politely. ‘Will you tell him that Jilly Prescott called?’ She repeated her name carefully. ‘Will you please tell him that I’m in London and that I need to speak to him urgently? Ask him to call me back at this number.’ And she gave the girl Max Fleming’s telephone number. There was no response. ‘Have you got that?’ she asked, rather more sharply than she had meant to.
‘Sure. I’ll tell him.’ And Jilly had a mental image of the girl crumpling up the note and flinging it into the nearest bin. About to say that she really was an old friend, that he would want to know she was in town, she restrained herself. Richie—Rich—was a celebrity these days. Girls probably rang him all the time and Jilly was getting the distinct impression that the bored voice at the other end of the telephone had heard it all before.
Her mother was rather more pleased to hear from her. Too pleased. ‘Jilly! Thank goodness you’ve phoned. I’ve just found out that Gemma’s away.’ It was uncanny the way she did that. Just found out things. Where she’d been, who she’d been with. There had never been any point in telling her mother even the tiniest little white lie. She always found out. ‘Your auntie has just been round showing off a postcard Gemma sent her from Florida. She’s gone there with her boyfriend.’ Disapproval oozed down the telephone line. ‘I just knew it was a mistake for you to go racing off like that. What are you going to do now?’
She was being given a choice? She wasn’t being ordered back on the first train home like a child? No, her mother was cleverer than that. She would rely on the promise given that she would go straight home if anything went wrong—a promise she had given in the certainty that nothing could.
She was twenty years old, for heaven’s sake, nearly twenty-one. Not a child. A twenty-year-old, moreover, who had taken on a job, had people—well, Max Fleming—relying on her. Her mother would understand that, surely? ‘Mum, right now I have half a book of shorthand notes to type up. Until that’s done I can’t think about anything else,’ she said. But she was thinking that it would be nice, just for once, to behave like her madcap cousin, forget promises and do what she wanted.
Gemma was irresponsible, she dyed her hair and lived in London and her mother had always said she would come to a bad end. Maybe she would, but right now Gemma was on holiday in Florida. With a boyfriend. Jilly didn’t have a boyfriend. Not that she hadn’t had offers, but there had only ever been Richie and just lately he seemed to have forgotten she existed…
‘What a disappointment for you,’ her mother said, all sympathy now she was sure Jilly would be home in hours. ‘What’s it like? The job, I mean.’ Certain of Jilly’s obedient response to the jerk of the apron strings, she clearly felt at liberty to allow her curiosity its head.
‘The job?’ Jilly, who wasn’t feeling at all charitable towards her mother, her cousin or anyone else, laid it on with a trowel. ‘The job is wonderful. Mr Fleming was so eager to have me start that Ms Garland sent me here in a taxi. The money is four times what I was earning before and the office cloakroom is marble,’ she added. A marble cloakroom would really impress her mother.
‘Really?’ Her mother’s offhand tone and the little sniff that went with it were a dead giveaway. She was impressed all right. ‘And this Mr Fleming, what’s he like?’
‘Mr Fleming?’ What was Max Fleming like? She remembered the moment when he had turned from the window and stared at her. No man had ever looked at her quite like that before, made her feel quite that…transparent. Not that she was going to tell her mother that. Instead, with a flash of inspiration, she went for her sympathy. ‘He’s been ill, I think. He walks with a stick.’ That made him sound positively geriatric, she realised belatedly.
‘Ah, the poor man—’ Mrs Prescott was all concern.
Geriatric was good, Jilly realised. ‘And he’s obviously had a terrible time getting a temp that can take shorthand down here,’ she said, throwing in a sop to her mother’s northern prejudices.
‘Well, he won’t be able to complain about your work.’ Her mother’s smug satisfaction about that irritated her. What was the point of being the very best at your job if you had to live at home and work in some dreary solicitor’s office for a pittance? She wanted a job like Amanda Garland’s secretary; she wanted to dress in a suit that cost a mint of money, have her split ends trimmed by someone who knew the right way to hold the scissors…Heck, why stop at that? She wanted to be Amanda Garland, not her secretary. ‘What does he do?’ her mother asked, cutting in on this wild daydream. Her mother had no objection to chatting long distance on the telephone at someone else’s expense.
‘He’s an economist; he’s working with the World Bank to find money to finance water resources for those poor little children in Africa. You know, the ones you see on the television.’ Tugging shamelessly on her mother’s well-developed sense of sympathy, she sighed dramatically. ‘I don’t know how he’s going to manage…’ Then, ‘I’ll have to go now, Mum, I’ve a pile of work to do—’
But her mother wasn’t finished. ‘Have you spoken to Richie Blake, yet?’ She kept her voice carefully neutral, but even so the distrust seeped around the edges.
‘No, not yet.’ The plain unvarnished truth.
But the day was not yet over.
‘Well, I’d better let you go, Jilly. Ring me and let me know what train you’ll be on.’
Her mother’s complacent belief that she would give up the best job she had ever had and return home without making an effort to find somewhere to stay until Gemma returned was practically an incitement to rebellion.
Promptly at three o’clock she tapped on Max Fleming’s office door, entered and placed the completed report on his desk.
He glanced at the report, then at the clock on the mantelpiece striking the hour, and then sat back in his big leather chair and regarded her with those penetrating grey eyes. ‘Tell me, Jilly, did you wait until you heard the clock begin to chime or was it pure chance that brought you through the door on the stroke of three?’
He knew the answer to that as well as she did, but she refused to be intimidated. ‘Pure chance,’ she replied without hesitation.
‘In a pig’s eye.’
Jilly blinked. Her solicitor would never have dreamed of saying anything like that. But he was right, of course, she’d been finished in plenty of time. She’d used it to try Richie’s office again. He’d gone out. ‘Whatever you say, sir.’
He looked quickly down at the report, but not before she’d seen his mouth twitch in a rather promising way. ‘Max. Call me Max. And sit down while I check this for mistakes.’
‘You won’t find any.’
‘Then it won’t take long, will it?’
She didn’t reply, but flinched as he checked some figures against a computer printout and then crossed through the ones she had typed, replacing them with a new set. He glanced up and this time there was no doubt about the smile. ‘I had second thoughts about those figures. Reprint it, will you? Six copies. And call a courier. I want it biked over to the ODA the minute it’s printed.’ He saw her blank look. ‘The Overseas Development Agency,’ he explained. ‘There’s an address book on your desk. Not that they’ll do anything with it until it’s too late.’
Unable to think of any suitable reply to that, she picked up the report and headed back to her office.
‘Then bring your book in,’ he added before she reached the door. ‘If I clear my in-tray tonight you can start working on it first thing in the morning. I’ll be out until midday—’
She stopped, turned to look at him, her heart in her boots. There was no point in putting it off any longer, she would have to tell him. ‘I’m sorry, but I doubt if I’ll be here in the morning, Mr Fleming.’
He glanced up from the pile of mail in front of him. ‘Not here? Of course you’ll be here. Didn’t Amanda tell you that I needed you for at least two weeks, possibly longer?’
‘Yes, she did. But you were right. My cousin is on holiday—she’s in Florida, so I’ve got nowhere to stay.’
‘But that’s no reason to go rushing back to…’ He paused, clearly trying to remember where it was she had said she came from.
‘North of Watford,’ she reminded him.
‘Somewhere no one has ever heard of,’ he retaliated. Then, ‘She won’t be away for ever.’
She might as well be. ‘Until the end of the month.’
‘Exactly. Two weeks. You can stay in a hotel until then.’
Just like that? ‘I’m sure you mean well, Mr Fleming—’
‘Max,’ he reminded her.
‘Max,’ she repeated awkwardly. She’d never called anyone she worked for by their first name before. ‘I’ve been temping since November and in case you hadn’t noticed we’ve just had Christmas. I had to pay for my train fare down here on my credit card—’
‘In other words, don’t be such an idiot?’
‘I didn’t say that—’
‘You were thinking it, and you were right. But you’re not going anywhere, Jilly Prescott. You’re the first girl I’ve had in this office in the last two weeks who even comes close to Laura…’ he saw her frown ‘…my secretary. She’s away looking after her mother.’
‘Yes, Ms Garland told me.’
He regarded her closely. ‘There must be somewhere you can stay?’
Must there? ‘Any number of park benches,’ she offered. ‘And there’s Waterloo Bridge if I provide my own cardboard box—’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ he said angrily. The very thought of her sleeping rough sent a shiver up his spine. But there had to be some solution. He’d call Amanda; having found the perfect secretary for him, she would surely do anything to help him to keep her, if only to keep him off her back. ‘Sit down.’
‘What about this report?’
He didn’t answer, simply fixed her with his eyes and waited for her to obey him. She returned to the chair in front of his desk and sat down without another word. Only then did he reach for the telephone. ‘Amanda? I need another favour.’
‘Please tell me that you haven’t given that poor girl such a hard time that she’s left already? I did warn you—’
‘That “poor girl” needs none of your sympathy. What she needs is a roof over her head for the next two weeks.’
‘So?’
‘Can you find her somewhere?’
‘I run an employment agency, darling, not an accommodation bureau.’ He waited. ‘I don’t understand why you need my help,’ she added unhelpfully.
‘Who else would I ask?’
‘Darling, look around you. You’ve got enough room in that barn of a house for twenty secretaries. Put her in one of them. She’ll be handy when you get some brilliant idea in the middle of night.’
‘I can’t do that—’
‘Why not? Really, Max, if you’re worried that she’ll think you’re lusting after her luscious young body tell her that you’re gay.’
‘Mandy!’
‘No? Macho pride couldn’t stand it? Well, in that case you’ll just have to convince her that Harriet will make a perfectly adequate chaperon, won’t you?’ And with that she hung up.

CHAPTER THREE
MAX replaced the receiver and looked at the girl sitting opposite him. Amanda’s solution to the problem was so obvious that he should have thought of it himself. He just wished she hadn’t put ideas into his head. It reminded him of his mistaken belief that Jilly had been a kissogram, that she had the kind of figure that would have made a nineteen-forties pin-up envious.
Jilly was looking at him expectantly and he swallowed hard. ‘My sister always sees thing so clearly,’ he said. ‘The answer is obvious. You must stay here.’
‘Here!’ The blood rushed to Jilly’s cheeks. ‘In your house?’ she added, eyes wide. ‘But that’s—’
It hadn’t occurred to Max to take his sister seriously, but his offer appeared to confirm everything Jilly’s mother had ever warned her about London in general and men in particular and he rapidly revised his plan to install her in the guest suite. ‘There’s a self-contained flat above the garage block,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s not fancy, but it’s a lot better than a cardboard box under Waterloo Bridge.’
Jilly couldn’t believe it. How dared his sister call him a monster? Max Fleming was an absolute darling and she wanted to leap out of her chair and fling her arms around him and tell him that he was her knight in shining armour. His expression, however, and the stiffness with which he held himself, suggested that he would not welcome that kind of response.
‘Well?’ he said as she hesitated, dithering awkwardly in front of his desk. ‘What are you waiting for? I want that report on the Minister’s desk today.’
‘I’ll go and sort out that courier,’ she said. Then, at the door, she looked back. ‘Thank you, Max.’
He waved her away impatiently, head already bent over a column of figures.
The flat was small but, as promised, self-contained. There was a stone staircase leading up the side of the garage block to a door that opened into a tiny vestibule and then directly into the living room.
‘This is lovely,’ Jilly said when, at last, Max had cleared his in-tray and Harriet was able to take her across to show her around. Max Fleming was right, it wasn’t fancy, but it was comfortable and it had to be worth ten times anything she could afford. ‘Why is it empty?’
‘It was the chauffeur’s flat in the old days. Max’s father refused to learn to drive. Amanda and Laura wanted Max to take someone on after his accident but he wouldn’t, said he’d rather hire a car and driver when he needed one—not that he goes out much these days.’ Jilly would have liked to ask Harriet why, but she wasn’t given the chance as the woman went on, ‘I’ve brought across some basic necessities for you—tea, milk, that sort of thing—and the telephone is connected. Max said to tell you that phoning home is one of the perks of the job.’
‘Oh, that’s kind.’
Harriet gave her a sideways look and said, ‘I’m sure you’ll earn it. He works day and night and he’ll have you doing the same if you let him.’ She handed her a keyring. ‘Here’s the door key. The other key opens the side gate. Settle in and then come across to the house. Dinner is at eight.’ Dinner? The flash of panic must have been visible on her face, because Harriet smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t worry. Max won’t expect you to dress up, just don’t wear jeans—the dining room chairs are antique and denim is murder on the fabric.’
‘Actually—’ Harriet waited. ‘Do you think Mr Fleming would mind if I skipped dinner? I didn’t get much sleep last night and I’m fit to drop.’
‘And he kept you working until nearly seven.’ Harriet was sympathetic. ‘You’ll have to be tough with him, Jilly.’
‘He said I could start late in the morning to make up for it. He’ll be out until lunchtime.’
‘Make sure you do that. And don’t worry about dinner, he always works through it so I doubt if he’ll even notice you’re missing. Can I bring you something to eat here? You won’t feel like cooking.’
‘I’ll just make myself a cup of tea and a slice of toast and fall into bed, thanks all the same.’
‘Well, come across in the morning and I’ll cook you some breakfast—you’ll be hungry by then.’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but said goodnight and left.
Jilly closed the door and leaned on it, looking around her, scarcely able to believe her luck. Then a huge yawn caught her by surprise. It was, she decided, quite possible that she wouldn’t get as far as making toast. But she had to have a bath. And phone her mother. That would take careful handling. What was she going to say?
I’m such a great secretary that Max has given me the flat above his garage rather than lose me? She could just imagine her mother’s reaction to that news. She’d struggled to bring up three young children on her own and her opinion of men was not good at the best of times.
It was utterly ridiculous, of course—a man like Max Fleming wouldn’t look twice at a girl like her. But perhaps it would be a good idea if she continued to refer to him as Mr Fleming…The geriatric Mr Fleming. The thought provoked a giggle as she rang home.
‘Jilly! What on earth is happening? I’ve been sitting here all afternoon waiting, worrying—’
Jilly brought the giggle under control and quickly said, ‘Everything’s fine, Mum. Mr Fleming has offered me the use of the chauffeur’s flat until Gemma gets back. If you’ve got a pen there, I’ll give you the telephone number.’
‘Where’s the chauffeur?’ her mother demanded suspiciously.
‘He hasn’t got one. The place was empty. I’ll give you the phone number now, if you’re ready.’
‘Oh. Right. Just a minute, I’ll have to find something to write with.’ Disappointment oozed down the line and Jilly suddenly realised that her mother must have thought it was her lucky day when she’d discovered Gemma was away. Well, she wasn’t about to give her time to think of some other reason why she simply had to come straight home.
She read the number off the dial. Then, before her mother asked any awkward questions—like, What kind of office block has a chauffeur’s flat?—she said, ‘Look, I’ll have to go, Mum. This is long distance.’ And she didn’t feel in the least bit wicked for using her mother’s excuses for her own ends. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow evening. Don’t worry, now. Bye.’ She put the phone down quickly. That had been easier than she’d thought.
It rang again almost immediately, making her jump, and she smiled a little grimly. She’d congratulated herself a fraction too soon. She picked up the receiver somewhat gingerly.
‘Jilly Prescott.’
‘I was just checking that I’d got the number right,’ her mother said.
Just checking up on her, more like. ‘Good idea, Mum.’
‘And what’s the address?’
She told her and then quickly said goodbye and hung up before her mother thought of any more questions.
She glanced at the telephone, wondering if she should try Richie’s office again. She checked her watch and realised that it was nearly seven-thirty. Far too late.
She unpacked, hanging her clothes neatly in the closet. The bed had been made, presumably by Harriet; it took a real effort of will to drag herself away from the temptation of the turned-back cover and white linen sheets and to go and run a bath.
The bathroom wasn’t up to the marble magnificence of the cloakroom in the house, but the water was hot and there were expensive bath salts and a pile of fresh towels just like the ones in the cloakroom. Too much of this, she thought as she sank beneath the water, and she’d be spoilt rotten.

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