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A Professional Marriage
Jessica Steele
She was the perfect assistant…Chesnie Cosgrove is overjoyed when she lands the job of senior secretary to handsome tycoon Joel Davenport. Joel may be demanding to work for, but it's the long line of women trying to date him that's driving Chesnie mad!…and convenient wife?The tables are turned when Joel discovers Chesnie is casually dating his arch rival. The best way to deal with this "little problem," he decides, is to announce his own engagement–to Chesnie! But is his proposal strictly professionaL.or more personal?



“I’ll remind you what I said at my interview, Joel,”
Chesnie continued. “That I am not, repeat not, remotely interested in marriage!” She’d been spurred on by a growing niggle of annoyance—but she didn’t regret a word of it.
Until Joel’s brow went up and he exclaimed, “Marriage! Philip offered you marriage?”
“What on earth did you think he proposed?” Chesnie exclaimed.
Joel looked at her, looked at her as if he was really seeing her. “Oh, Chesnie Cosgrove,” he answered, a smile coming to his wonderful mouth, “looking at you, half a dozen offers spring to mind.”


From boardroom…to bride and groom!
A secret romance, a forbidden affair, a thrilling attraction?
Working side by side, nine to five—and beyond…
No matter how hard these couples try to keep their relationships strictly professional, romance is definitely on the agenda!
But will a date in the office diary lead to an appointment at the altar?
Find out in this exciting new miniseries from Harlequin Romance®.
The Tycoon’s Proposition (#3729)
by Rebecca Winters

A Professional Marriage
Jessica Steele




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

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#ubbf2fa61-030f-5a21-9ad4-247c7e6a2908)
CHAPTER TWO (#u5171d8ae-574e-5413-92f8-5edf6cd9c90e)
CHAPTER THREE (#udd071bce-dac1-5358-af52-66cf55bc5a8e)
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)

CHAPTER ONE
‘MR DAVENPORT will see you now.’
Chesnie’s insides had been on the fidget for the last half-hour and now renewed their churning. But she rose elegantly to her feet and maintained her cool exterior and followed Barbara Platt—the woman whose job she was hoping to secure for herself—into the adjoining office.
‘Chesnie Cosgrove.’ Barbara Platt introduced her to the tall, dark-blond-haired man who was rising from his chair.
‘Thank you, Barbara.’ He had a pleasant, well-modulated voice, but as his present PA went out and closed the door Chesnie noted that there was something about the thirty-six or thirty-seven-year-old man who turned his blue gaze on her that said he could be exceedingly tough if the occasion demanded it. ‘Take a seat, Miss Cosgrove,’ he invited, in one sweeping glance taking in her slim five feet nine inches of height, her immaculate business suit, her red-blonde hair, green eyes and what one of her sisters had called her ‘pale, flawless complexion to die for’. ‘You found us without any trouble?’ Joel Davenport opened pleasantly.
The vast offices of Yeatman Trading would be hard to miss. ‘Yes,’ she replied evenly, and that was all the time he had available for pleasantries, it seemed, for in the next split second her job interview with him was underway.
‘So—tell me about yourself,’ he opened.
‘My qualifications are—’
‘Were I unaware of your three years’ experience as a senior secretary, your excellent typing speeds, and—according to your previous employer—your outstanding organising and communication skills, you wouldn’t be sitting here,’ he cut her off.
Did she really want this job? He was tough! She’d had a couple of interviews with Human Resources before she’d got this far; clearly there was nothing about her business background that hadn’t been passed on to this man. She wondered about going back to Cambridge to work—but hadn’t she made up her mind to make a complete break? She decided to give Joel Davenport another chance.
‘I’m twenty-five,’ she informed him, and managed to stay outwardly cool when she realised that if he’d seen her application—and he seemed the kind of man who left nothing to chance—then he already knew that. ‘I’ve been working in Cambridge.’ He already knew that too. Stay cool, Chesnie, stay cool. The fact was, though, that she didn’t know what she could add to what he already knew; her second interview had been thorough in the extreme. She stared at him, this man she was hoping to work for, green eyes staring frankly into blue, and, feeling defeated, asked the only question possible. ‘What would you like to know?’
He studied her, not a smile in sight. She’d had more appreciative glances. ‘You’re well qualified. Your reference from your last employer is little short of glowing. Lionel Browning obviously thought the world of you.’
‘And I him,’ she answered. Lionel Browning had been an absolute darling to work for. A touch muddle-headed, true, which was why he had left so much to her—and which would all stand her in very good stead were she lucky enough to land this job.
‘Why then leave?’
Chesnie opened her mouth to trot out the same reason she had given Human Resources: advancement in her career. To a certain extent that was true. But, had matters not come to a head when Lionel’s son, Hector, had decided to come into the business she didn’t know if she would ever have been able to leave muddle-headed Lionel to run things on his own. But suddenly she found she did not want to lie to this direct-looking man. ‘I’d been thinking for some time that I wouldn’t mind something more challenging to get my teeth into,’ she began truthfully.
‘But…?’
She looked back at Joel Davenport. He was cool, cooler than she. And he was sharp—my word, he was sharp. He knew, for all she was sure she hadn’t slipped up anywhere, that there was more to it than that.
‘But I probably wouldn’t have been able to leave Lionel had it not been for his son coming into the business.’ She halted, too late regretting she had let this tough-looking man see she had a softer side when it came to her ex-employer. ‘Hector Browning’s own firm went bust. So he decided he’d come and give his father a hand.’
‘You didn’t get on?’
‘It was part of my job to get on with everyone,’ Chesnie answered, not taking kindly to having her professionalism questioned.
‘So what went wrong?’
She had an idea this interview was going very badly, and decided she’d got nothing to lose by telling that which, hurt and humiliated, she had not told another living soul. ‘Everything!’ she answered evenly, adjusting her position on her chair, catching the flick of his glance to her long slender and shapely legs now neatly crossed at the ankles. ‘On the same day I heard from my landlord that he’d decided to sell the property—and, no desperate rush, but would I care to look for a flat elsewhere?—I had a row with Hector Browning.’
‘You usually row with the people you work with?’
‘Lionel and I never had a cross word!’ Chesnie retorted—and inwardly groaned. She’d be having a row with Joel Davenport any minute! And she wasn’t working with him, or for him—or ever!
He was unperturbed. ‘Hector Browning rubbed you up the wrong way?’
‘That I could, and did, cope with. What I was not prepared to stay and put up with was that—was that…’ Joel Davenport waited, saying not one word, which left her forced to continue. ‘From the various snide remarks Hector Browning had made I knew he resented my closeness to his father, my affection for him and his affection for me. He—Hector…’ Again she hesitated, but the fact that she knew herself innocent made her tilt her chin a fraction. ‘When he that day accused me of having an affair with his father,’ she made herself go on, ‘I knew that one of us would have to go. Blood being thicker than water, I also knew it would be me.’
‘You handed in your resignation.’
‘I left last week—the end of the month.’
‘And were you?’ Joel Davenport asked.
‘Was I what?’
‘Having an affair with his father?’
Her eyes widened in surprise and annoyance that anyone could ask such a thing. Somehow, though, she was able to maintain the outer cool she showed to the world. ‘No, I was not!’ she stated clearly, and, not wishing to say any more on the subject, she left it there.
To his credit, Joel Davenport allowed her to do so. He nodded, at any rate—she took it that he believed her. ‘Human Resources will have explained the package that goes with the position.’ He took the interview into another area. ‘Obviously the salary, pension and holiday entitlement are acceptable to you or you wouldn’t have proceeded with your application.’
‘It’s a very generous package,’ Chesnie stated calmly. Generous! It was a sensational salary!
‘The successful candidate will earn every part of it,’ he replied, which she felt hinted that she was not the successful candidate. Though when he continued she began to wonder… ‘The job as my PA demands one hundred per cent commitment,’ he advised her, and surprised her by adding, ‘Your qualifications aside, you’re a beautiful woman, Miss Cosgrove—’ he did not seem personally impressed ‘—and no doubt have many admirers.’
About to deny she had any, Chesnie, who just wasn’t interested in relationships, suddenly felt feminine enough to want to go along with his view that she had a constant stream of admirers at her door. ‘They wouldn’t interfere with my work,’ she replied.
‘I may need you to work away with me on occasion,’ he went on. She knew from the job description that there were times when Joel Davenport required his PA to accompany him on overnight stays when he visited their Glasgow offices, and had no problem whatsoever with that. ‘Supposing such an occasion arose at short notice—say, half an hour before a theatre date with your favourite man?’
‘I’d hope my favourite man would enjoy the theatre just as much without me,’ she replied promptly, and thought she caught a momentary twitch of her serious interviewer’s mouth—quite a nice-shaped mouth, she suddenly realised—but it was come and gone in an instant.
‘There’s no one man in particular in your life?’
‘No,’ she replied. Who had the time? Or the inclination, for that matter?
‘No marriage plans?’ he asked sternly, her one-syllable answer insufficient, apparently. But she resented his question. She hadn’t asked him if he was married or about to be! She studied him for a moment. Good-looking, a director of the expanded and still expanding multi-national Yeatman Trading—he had it all, which no doubt included some lovely wife somewhere.
Suddenly she became aware that as she was studying him, so keen blue eyes were studying her. ‘I’m not remotely interested in marriage,’ she stated bluntly, belatedly realising his question, in light of his statement that the job as his PA demanded one hundred per cent commitment, was perhaps a valid one.
‘You sound as if you’ve something against marriage,’ he commented.
With her parents and her sisters as fine examples, who wouldn’t have? Chesnie kept her thoughts to herself. ‘I believe the latest statistics show that forty per cent of marriages end in divorce. Personally, I’m more career-oriented than marriage-minded.’
He nodded, but when she was expecting some comment on her reply, he instead enquired, ‘You’re still living in Cambridge?’
‘For the moment. Though at present I’m staying with my sister, here in London, for a few days.’
‘You’re obviously prepared to move here. Have you found anywhere to live yet?’
‘I thought I’d better sort out a job first,’ she answered, and was surprised when, without a response, he got to his feet.
‘Perhaps you should set about finding your accommodation without delay,’ he suggested pleasantly.
Chesnie looked at him. Clearly the interview was over. She stood up as he came round his desk. She was wearing two and a half inch heels and still had to look up at him. ‘I’m not sure…’ she faltered, not at all sure she should believe what she thought he was saying.
He held out his right hand, and automatically her right hand met his warm, firm clasp. ‘I should like you to start on Monday, Chesnie,’ he confirmed, and for the first time he smiled.
Chesnie managed to keep her face straight while she was in the Yeatman Trading building, but once she had left the building so too did she leave her cool, sophisticated image, her lovely face splitting into an equally lovely grin. She’d got it! She’d jolly well got it! Only then did she acknowledge how very much she had wanted this job as PA to Joel Davenport.
It sounded hard work—she thrived on hard work. To be constantly busy had been her lifeline. She hadn’t been sure what sort of work she wanted to do when she had left school, but with her studies finished and no need to spend time at her desk in her room she had spent more time with her parents. Their constant sniping at each other had driven her to take various courses at evening classes, all to do with business management.
It seemed to her she had been brought up in a house full of strife. The youngest of four sisters, with a two-year gap separating each of them, she had been twelve when her eldest sister, Nerissa, had married—for the first time. Nerissa was now on her second marriage, but that didn’t appear to be any happier than her first. Chesnie’s second sister, Robina, had married next—she was always leaving her husband and returning for weeks on end to the home she had confided she had only married young to get away from.
When her sister Tonia married, Chesnie had thought surely it must be third time lucky for one of her sisters. But, no. Tonia had produced two babies in quick succession and seemed to have quickly developed the same love-hate relationship with her husband that her parents shared.
With one or other of her sisters forever returning in tears to the family home, to rail against the man she had married, Chesnie had soon known that she wanted no part in marriage. She had attended college most evenings, doing most of her studying at the weekends. She had not lacked for potential boyfriends, however, and occasionally had gone out on a date with either someone she had known previously or had met at college. On occasions, too, she had experimented with a little kissing, but as soon as things had looked like getting serious she’d put up barriers.
She’d become aware she had started to get a reputation for being aloof. It had not bothered her—nor had it seemed to stop men asking her for a date.
Chesnie had been working in an office for two years when her studies came to an end. She’d taken more courses, and done more study, and two years later had been ready to take a better-paid job. She’d changed firms and begun work as a secretary and she’d been good at it.
What she had not been so good at was handling the traumatic friction that seemed to be a constant feature in her family home. She’d told herself she was being over-sensitive and that everyone had their ups and downs. The only trouble was that in her fraught home, the animosity was permanent.
Having been brought up to be self-sufficient, she had thought often of leaving and had soon felt she could just about afford a bedsit somewhere. Only the knowledge that her mother would be furious should she leave her commodious and graceful home for some lowly bedsit had stopped her.
Matters had come to a head one weekend, however, when all three weeping sisters, and crying babies, had descended. From where Chesnie had viewed it, each sister had been trying to outdo the other with reports of what a rotten husband her spouse was.
When Chesnie had felt her sympathy for the trio turning into a feeling of weariness with all three of them, she’d gone out into the garden and found her father inspecting his roses.
‘You came to escape the bedlam too?’ he asked wryly.
‘Dad, I’m thinking of moving out.’ The words she hadn’t rehearsed came blurting from her.
‘I think I’ll come with you,’ he replied. But, glancing at her to see if she was smiling at his quip, he saw that she wasn’t. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ he asked.
The words were out; she couldn’t retract them. ‘I’ve been thinking of it for some while. I’m sure I could manage a small bedsit, and…’
‘You’d better make that a small flat, and in a good area, if you want me to have any peace.’
Two days later her mother sought her out. ‘Your father tells me your home isn’t good enough for you any more.’
Chesnie knew that she loved her mother—just as she knew the futility of arguing with her. ‘I’d like to be—more—independent,’ she replied quietly.
Ten days after that, and much to her astonishment, her mother told her she had found somewhere for her. Chesnie was so overjoyed that her mother, having slept on it, had decided to aid her rather than make life difficult, that she closed her eyes to the fact that the rent of the flat was far more than she could afford.
Furnishing the flat was no problem. What with bits and pieces from her parents and her grandparents, and with her restless sister Nerissa always changing her home around and getting rid of some item of furniture or other, Chesnie soon made her small flat very comfortable.
She had been resident for two months, though, when she had to face up to the reality that she just couldn’t afford to be that independent. Her mother would be horrified if she went downmarket and found herself a bedsit. And from Chesnie’s point of view she would be horrified herself if she had to give up the peace and quiet she had found to return to her old home.
When Browning Enterprises advertised for a senior secretary she applied for the job, and got it. It paid more, and she earned it when she started taking on more and more responsibility. The only fly in the ointment was Lionel Browning’s son. But Hector Browing had his own business, and apart from visits to his father, usually when Hector’s finances needed a cash injection, Chesnie saw little of him. She was aware that he resented her, but could think of no reason for his dislike other than the fact that he knew that she knew he was as near broke as made no difference.
She was happy living in a place of her own, but since she lived in the same town as her parents she popped in to see them every two or three weeks—and always came away glad she had made the decision to leave.
Then, a year later, her paternal grandmother died, and after months of living in a kind of vacuum her grandfather sold his home in Herefordshire and, with her parents having ample room, moved in with them.
Chesnie adored her grandfather. She seemed to have a special affinity with him, and had feared from the beginning that life with her bickering parents would not suit her peace-loving Gramps. She took to ‘popping in’ to her old home more frequently.
She knew he looked forward to her visits, and knew when he suggested he teach her to drive that he was looking for excuses to get out of the house.
She and her grandfather spent many pleasant Saturday afternoons together, and when she passed her driving test she took to taking him for a drive somewhere. Three months ago she had driven him across country to Herefordshire, and to the village where he had lived prior to moving in with her parents.
Six days later she had arrived home from her office to find her grandfather sitting outside her flat in his car. ‘I’m not such a good cook as my mother, but you’re welcome to come to dinner,’ she invited lightly, watching him, knowing from the fact of him being there as much from the excited light in his eyes that something a touch monumental was going on.
Over macaroni cheese and salad he told her he had noticed a ‘To Let’ sign in the garden of a small cottage on their visit to his home village last Saturday. He hadn’t phoned the agent because, knowing the owner, he had phoned him instead. The result being the tenancy was his straight away on a temporary let while he waited for something in the village to come up for sale.
What could she say? ‘It’s what you want, Gramps?’ she asked quietly.
‘I should never have left,’ he answered simply, and she could only think, since he had never parted with his furniture but had put it in store, that perhaps without knowing it he had always meant to return.
‘What do my parents think?’
A wicked light she hadn’t seen in a long while entered his eyes. ‘Your father’s all right about it—er—your mother’s taken it personally.’
Chesnie knew all about her mother taking it ‘personally’—she would go on and on about it, and Chesnie suspected he would want to move out sooner rather than later. ‘When are you leaving?’ she asked.
‘I was wondering if you’re free to drive me there tomorrow?’ he asked, looking positively cheeky.
He had got everything arranged so quickly! She had to grin. ‘I’d love to,’ she answered, and was thinking in terms of availability of trains for the return trip when her grandfather seemed to read her mind.
‘You wouldn’t care to look after my car for me, would you? I’ll seldom need it, and it will only be until I can find a property in the village with a garage. There isn’t one at the cottage.’
That had been three months ago. Chesnie missed her grandfather but had driven to see him several times. When, six weeks ago, Hector Browning had accused her of having an affair with his father she had known she couldn’t possibly work at Browning Enterprises any longer.
Knowing she was going to part company with Lionel Browning, and having just received a letter asking her to vacate her flat, it had been decision time. She needed somewhere new to live and work; she could do both anywhere.
When Chesnie had seen the advert for the PA’s job at Yeatman Trading, and subsequently passed the first and second interviews, she’d crossed her fingers and hoped…
She still had a wide grin on her face when she drove up to the smart appartment block where her sister lived. She had a new job now, PA to none other than Mr Joel Davenport himself.
Nerissa was in, took one look at her beaming face, and squealed, ‘You got it!’
Later she calmed down enough to say that she had known she would get it. ‘The rest of us had to get married to afford to leave home. But not you, clever girl, you inherited the family brain.’ From Chesnie’s viewpoint it hadn’t been that easy. She had worked hard, but Nerissa was going blithely on, ‘Now to sort you out with a flat. Stephen was having a word with someone last night who may have something—’ She broke off waspishly. ‘He does have his uses.’
From that moment on everything seemed to move at lightning pace. Chesnie was not a partying person, but Nerissa made her promise to return for a party she and Stephen were holding on Saturday evening, and Chesnie returned to Cambridge and packed up her belongings ready for her move.
The party was a success; Nerissa wouldn’t have had it any other way. But, although Chesnie found the function enjoyable, she had other things on her mind—she had only two weeks to work alongside Joel Davenport’s present PA and get up to speed. It wasn’t very long—would she cope?
Chesnie arrived back at her sister’s apartment after her first Monday in her new job with her head spinning—and a sinking feeling that two months, let alone two weeks, wouldn’t be long enough for her to remember all that there was to absorb.
She was ready for bed and didn’t think she had energy enough to eat a meal. Her sister had other plans. ‘How was your first day?’ she asked straight away.
‘I’m on my knees!’ Chesnie confessed.
‘That good, huh? And how was the new boss?’
‘I haven’t seen him. He’s in Scotland until Wednesday.’
‘Right, now, don’t take your jacket off. The flat Stephen told me about has come up. Come on, we’ll go and take a look.’
Somewhere to live was a priority. From somewhere Chesnie conjured up some enthusiasm and, with her sister driving, went to view a small flat on the outskirts of the city.
The flat consisted of a sitting room, bathroom, a tiny kitchen and two bedrooms, though the second bedroom was no bigger than her parents’ broom cupboard. ‘If there’s a chance, I’ll take it,’ Chesnie declared at once. The rent was astronomical—but so too was her salary.
‘You’re sure?’ Nerissa questioned. ‘You’re welcome to stay with me for as long as you like—if you can put up with Tibbetts.’ ‘Tibbetts’ being her husband, Stephen Tibbetts.
‘This will do fine,’ Chesnie assured her, and in no time Nerissa was speaking to her husband on the phone.
‘You can move in any time,’ she said the moment she had ended her call. ‘Let’s celebrate!’
Chesnie was grateful that the celebration was nothing more than a meal out with a glass of wine.
Tuesday proved every bit as busy as the previous day, with Barbara Platt trying to break her in gently but as aware as Chesnie that there was not too much time remaining before Barbara departed a week on Friday.
Joel Davenport had already been at his desk for over an hour when Chesnie arrived at her office on Wednesday. She was not late, was in fact fifteen minutes early. In the short time she’d been there she had heard that he simply ate up work—throughout that day he proved it.
Not that she had much to do with him. Though he did leave his office at one point to speak to Barbara and to pause in passing to ask, pleasantly enough, ‘Settling in?’
She raised her head, maintaining her cool image to politely agree, ‘Yes, thank you,’ and he went on to Barbara’s desk and Chesnie went back to what she had been doing.
By Friday, although she was starting to grow more confident that she was up to the job, she was nevertheless mentally exhausted by the time she arrived at her sister’s home, to be greeted by Nerissa smilingly telling her, ‘Philip Pomeroy rang. He wants to take you out.’
‘You make me sound like a set of dentures! Who’s Philip Pomeroy?’
‘You’re hopeless!’ Nerissa complained. ‘You met him at my party last Saturday. Tallish, wavy brownish hair, very slightly receding, pushing forty. Ring any bells?’
Chesnie did a mental flip back to the party, and placed Philip Pomeroy as a rather amiable man, interested in her, but inoffensive with it. ‘Did you tell him I was busy?’
‘I told him you’d ring him.’
‘Nerissa!’
‘Oh, go on, ring him. He’s nice.’
Out of courtesy to her sister, who had promised a return phone call on her behalf, Chesnie reluctantly phoned Philip Pomeroy, who appeared pleased she had rung and straight away asked her to dine with him.
‘I’m very busy at the moment,’ she replied.
‘You’re too busy to eat?’
‘I’m moving into a new flat tomorrow,’ she explained. ‘It will take me over a week to get everything unpacked.’
‘I could bring champagne and caviar round, and we could snack while you unpack.’
She laughed and decided she liked him. ‘Some other time,’ she said, and rang off.
Chesnie had a change from mental exhaustion on Saturday, when she met the delivery van from Cambridge and set about placing her belongings and hanging up curtains.
On Monday Barbara Platt afforded her the most wonderful, if scary, compliment by telling her that Joel Davenport had a meeting at one of their other businesses and that Barbara was going with him. ‘We won’t be back again today, but I know you’ll cope.’
Chesnie wished she had Barbara’s confidence in that, but, to her delight—though bearing in mind it had gone seven in the evening before she finally switched off her computer—cope she did. She was not complaining—she was starting to really enjoy her job. She went home to her new flat feeling on top of the world.
Friday, Barbara’s last day, arrived all too quickly. Chesnie spent the morning eagerly absorbing all and everything that Barbara was telling her of the more confidential details of their work. She supposed that with Barbara divulging such matters it must mean that she had satisfied herself that the new PA was worthy of such confidences.
Feeling enormously pleased with Barbara’s trust, Chesnie was further delighted when at half past twelve the good-looking Joel Davenport came into their office and, instead of going over to Barbara’s desk, came over to Chesnie.
‘I’m taking my number one PA for an extended lunch. The office is all yours, Chesnie Cosgrove.’
Indeed, so delighted was she at this further show of trust in her abilities that her cool exterior slipped momentarily. She smiled, a natural smile. ‘Bon appétit,’ she replied.
She became aware that Joel Davenport was staring at her as if seeing something new in her for the first time, but before she could change her smile back to her more usual guarded smile he muttered, ‘Those incredibly long eyelashes can’t be real.’
‘I’m afraid they are,’ she replied.
‘Amazing,’ he commented—and took his ‘number one’ PA off for a parting lunch.
Feeling a mite disturbed by Joel Davenport’s personal comment—even if it had sounded more matter-of-fact than personal—Chesnie was soon over any disquiet when she realised that if Barbara was his number one PA today, then on Monday yours truly, Chesnie Cosgrove, would be number one!
She had plenty to do, and was fully involved in her work when at five to three Barbara came back from what it transpired had been a champagne lunch.
‘Joel has gone on to keep his three o’clock appointment,’ Barbara explained. ‘Now, what can I help you with?’
‘I think you’ve filled in as many blanks as you can,’ Chesnie replied.
And guessed she must have sounded a mite apprehensive when Barbara replied that she was confident she would cope admirably. ‘A bit different from your predecessor.’
‘My predecessor?’ Chesnie was puzzled. Mustard had nothing on Joel Davenport’s present PA.
‘Didn’t I mention it?’ Barbara realised that she hadn’t, and went on to correct that oversight.
Apparently Barbara’s life had changed dramatically when she had met Derek Platt. In no time she had fallen in love and married him. Derek had been in the process of purchasing a small holding in the Welsh borders, and that had been fine by Barbara. A smart and mature woman, she’d looked forward to this change of lifestyle.
‘I gave ample notice, and we thought we’d selected the right person. But she proved not up to the job, and Joel didn’t think the other candidates were any better, so we advertised again. And—’ she smiled ‘—here you are. And, I’m certain, more than up to the job.’
Chesnie fervently hoped she was right. ‘That won’t prevent you from leaving me your phone number, I hope?’ It had been Barbara’s suggestion that she would. But she laughed and, having more or less cleared her desk, began to expand on matters other than the work which Chesnie would be dealing with.
Barbara was full of praise for Joel. Yeatman Trading had been going through a very tough time when he had joined the firm. He had seen at once what needed to be done, and had done it—had transformed the company—and been rewarded with a seat on the board.
‘And now,’ Barbara continued, ‘within the next year Winslow Yeatman is going to retire.’
‘The chairman?’ Chesnie had picked that up from somewhere during the past two weeks.
‘None other,’ Barbara agreed. ‘And Joel wants that job—very badly. He has very progressive ideas, and believes that to be able to put those ideas into effect he needs to be chairman.’
‘Will he get it?’ Chesnie asked.
‘If there’s any justice he will,’ Barbara answered. ‘It’s largely through his efforts that a firm that was heading for the rocks has gone from strength to strength this past ten years. He, more than anyone, is responsible for its growth and expansion. He’s ambitious and hard-headed when it comes to business. But he’s good. They certainly don’t come any better.’
Chesnie had seen that much for herself in the short time she’d been there. ‘You think he might not get it?’ she asked.
‘Nothing’s certain. The problem here is that this started off as a family firm a hundred or so years ago, and, although new blood such as Joel has gradually infiltrated, over half the board are family members. Three of whom I know for a fact want a Yeatman to head the company. There are nine people on the board, excluding the chairman, and while I know there are three of the directors who are for Joel, he can’t vote for himself, so that leaves two other votes as yet unaccounted for. Should the vote be split and Winslow Yeatman have to make the casting vote then it’s more than likely he’ll favour a family man.’
‘One of his family?’
Barbara shook her head. ‘A man with a family. He also wants what is best for the firm.’
‘Doesn’t J…Mr Davenport have a family?’
‘He’s not married.’
Chesnie felt a little surprised. ‘Some woman named Felice phoned for him last week, and a woman named Gina phoned to speak to him on Monday. I put them in the wife and daughter slot.’
‘Girlfriends.’ Barbara corrected Chesnie’s assumption. ‘He’s more than happy with his bachelor lifestyle.’ She gave a wicked grin. ‘Though his fellow director, Arlene Enderby, née Yeatman, recently divorced, non-working but taking her cut just the same—and who just happens to be the chairman’s niece—has got her eye on Joel.’
‘Does he know?’
Barbara gave a whoop of laughter. ‘I’ve an idea that there’s not much that goes on in the female mind that Joel doesn’t know. He’s taken her out a couple of times, so I’m positive she will have filled in any gaps.’ At that point Barbara seemed to collect herself. ‘And I’m talking too much—must be the champage—I’m not used to it. Either that or some instinctive feeling that you’ll be better able to help him get what he deserves and has worked for if you know more of what’s going on.’
At a quarter to five Joel Davenport, who must have entered his office by the outer door, rang for Barbara to go in to see him. She came out ten minutes later, emotional tears in her eyes, a cheque in one hand, a jeweller’s box in the other, and a gorgeous bouquet of flowers in her arms.
‘Oh, Chesnie,’ she said, emotion still with her after the presentation she had just received, ‘I do so hope you’ll be as happy working here as I have been.’
‘I’m sure I shall,’ Chesnie answered with a smile, but more hoped that she could do the job. For, aside from the everyday difficulties and stress that were part and parcel of the job, from what Barbara had said earlier it seemed there was a lot of in-fighting going on too.
For a fact, there were three board members who were against Joel Davenport getting the chairman’s job.
Chesnie suddenly felt swallowed up by an unexpected huge wave of loyalty, and she determined that if there was any small thing in her power she could do to help him get that chairman’s job, she would do it. Then she laughed at herself. What on earth did she think she, a PA, could do that would help when it came to electing the new chairman?

CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS four weeks since Barbara had left, and Chesnie was thankful that in those four weeks she had not had to phone Barbara or needed to call on the services of Eileen Gray, a kind of floating PA who, while not wanting the pressure of being anyone’s full-time PA, was so good at the job that the company did not want to let her go.
Chesnie drove to work that Monday four weeks after Barbara’s departure and for the first time truly believed that she could do the job of Joel’s number one PA.
It had not been an easy four weeks. Joel Davenport, for all he made his job seem effortless, had an appetite for work that at first had caused her to work in overdrive just to try and keep up with him.
She worked late; once, when he was out for the day, staying at the office until gone nine at night to catch up and so have her desk clear for the next morning.
Most evenings she staggered home to make a quick snack, get her smart business clothes ready for the morning, and fall into bed. Sometimes she dreamed of him, but that was hardly surprising; he had become a dominant force in her life.
On one weekend she had visited her grandfather in Herefordshire, and another weekend she’d gone to see her parents in Cambridge. Robina had been there, having left Ronnie for a ‘final’ time. She was divorcing him, she’d declared in floods of tears, she’d had enough. Ronnie had phoned, and there were more tears as Robina had screeched a list of his faults down the phone at him.
All that hate and recrimination had served only to freshly endorse for Chesnie that she’d got the better bargain when 23 she’d decided never to marry. Though she had to smile—when would she get the chance? Working for and with such a high-powered, work-oriented man, she didn’t have the time to date, much less to build any kind of relationship.
Which reminded her. Nerissa had telephoned last night to say Philip Pomeroy had rung again and could he have her sister’s number?
‘You didn’t give it to him?’ Chesnie had asked, guessing that Philip wanted to ask her out; she didn’t have time to go out. By not letting him have her newly connected number, she was spared having to make excuses.
‘I promised you I wouldn’t,’ Nerissa had confirmed.
With her new-found confidence in her ability to cope with her job, Chesnie parked her grandfather’s car, swung into the building and took the lift to the top floor. It went without saying that Joel Davenport would already be hard at work. Unless he was out of town he was always in before her.
An involuntary smile lit her mouth as she recalled that first Monday after Barbara had gone. Hoping to look as cool and as poised as she was striving to look, Chesnie, feeling a bundle of nerves, had entered her office. No sooner had she sat down, though, and Joel Davenport had come to greet her as if it had been her first day.
‘Good morning, Chesnie,’ he’d said pleasantly. ‘We haven’t frightened you off, then?’
She had given him her guarded smile. ‘Good morning, Mr Davenport,’ she’d replied and, inwardly churning, ‘I don’t scare easily,’ she had added.
He’d studied her, nodded, and then commented, ‘That’s what I like to hear. The name’s Joel,’ he indicated, and her first day as numero uno had begun.
The door between the two offices stood open today, as it sometimes did when she went in. ‘Good morning,’ Chesnie called to the dark-blond-haired man absorbed in the paperwork in front of him.
‘Good morning,’ he answered, but did not raise his head. Business as usual.
Chesnie had barely stowed her bag when Darren, the post boy, arrived. ‘Good morning, Miss Cosgrove,’ he said huskily, and as their hands touched as she relieved him of the bundles of post he blushed crimson.
Chesnie took her eyes from him, giving him time to compose himself. ‘How’s your mother?’ she asked. ‘I do hope she’s on the mend.’ She glanced at him, glad to see his blush had died down.
‘She’s going back to work today,’ he answered on a gulp of breath. ‘Thank you,’ he added, and gave her a beautiful smile as his eyes glued to her face, he backed to the door.
Then he became aware that Joel Davenport had come from his office and was standing watching him—Darren bolted. ‘That young man idolises you,’ Joel said abruptly.
‘It’s only a crush,’ Chesnie replied, and was ready to deal with any query her employer had when she discovered he wasn’t ready to dismiss the subject yet.
‘He’ll never get over it while you treat him that way!’
What way was that? ‘I’d rather be pleasant to him than not,’ she answered, as calmly as she was able.
‘Is that the way you treat all your admirers?’
What had this got to do with work? ‘It depends how old they are,’ she replied evenly. ‘Young men like Darren, sensitive young men, deserve to have their blushes respected. Older, more cynical men,’ she went on, looking one such straight in the eye, ‘are too tough to need kid-glove treatment.’
A grunt was her answer. ‘Bring the post through when you’ve sorted it!’ he rapped.
Yes, sir, three bags full, sir. And, anyhow, he could talk! In the short time she’d been there she’d observed he had quite a fan club amongst the female staff.
The morning that had got off to a rancorous start did not improve much for Chesnie when, nearing one o’clock, Joel’s office door opened. Observing he wasn’t there, the most striking-looking blue-eyed brunette, sporting a sensational tan, fluttered through and into Chesnie’s office.
‘You must be Chesnie!’ She smiled. ‘Uncle Winslow told me all about you.’
‘Uncle Winslow’ must be Winslow Yeatman, the chairman. Chesnie had by then met him several times and found him a most charming gentleman. ‘You must be Arlene Enderby,’ Chesnie guessed—the non-working director of the company.
‘You have it. I’ve come to take Joel to lunch, but he doesn’t appear to be in.’
Chesnie, who managed Joel’s diary with keen efficiency, knew for certain he did not have a lunch appointment with the chairman’s niece. ‘He’s probably been held up somewhere,’ she suggested tactfully. ‘Perhaps…’
‘Oh, we haven’t arranged lunch. I’ve just got back from soaking up the sun on holiday.’ She almost purred as she trotted out, ‘We have such a lot to catch up on, I thought—’ She broke off to exclaim, ‘Ah!’ as they heard a door open and saw Joel stride into his office. ‘Joel! Darling!’ Arlene Enderby cried, and was in the other office, flinging her arms around him as if he was some long-lost lover.
Chesnie met the eyes of her employer as Arlene Enderby snuggled into his arms. Chesnie did not smile; neither did he. She got up and deliberately closed the door—and discovered she was inwardly shaking, experiencing the strangest sensation of not caring to see him with his arms around some woman. How odd! Why should it bother her at all?
It wasn’t in the least odd, she decided a moment later. This was a place of business and that was why she didn’t care for it. Everything that happened in this office should be purely professional. Which wasn’t what was happening next door. What was happening next door? It was very quiet in there. She half wished she had left the door open.
Chesnie was over the slight glitch in her equilibrium by the next day. She smiled and chatted lightly to Darren when he brought the post, and dealt pleasantly with the various heads of department—male ones—who seemed to find it necessary to stop by her desk for one reason or another. She had gradually got to know more and more of the people within the organisation, and it was good to be able to put a face to the various names that cropped up from time to time.
Though there was one new face she hadn’t seen before. The tall white-haired man poked his head round her office door at a quarter to one and came in. ‘Well, you’re a decided improvement on Barbara Thingy,’ he beamed, and, when Chesnie looked pleasantly enquiring, asked, ‘Is my son around?’
‘You’re Joel’s father?’
‘I know, I know. I don’t look old enough to have a son that age,’ quipped the man Chesnie thought must be at least seventy. ‘Magnus Davenport, at your service.’ He extended his right hand, and Chesnie immediately decided she liked him.
‘Chesnie Cosgrove,’ she introduced herself, shaking his hand. ‘I’m afraid your son is at a business lunch. Can I help you at all?’
‘Oh, dear, that’s a nuisance! I’ve driven all the way across the city hoping he’d take me to lunch,’ Davenport Senior replied with a sigh.
Chesnie thought for a moment. The matter was settled when it came to her that Joel’s father was only about ten years younger than Gramps. She wouldn’t hesitate to take her grandfather to lunch. ‘I’ll take you if you like?’ she offered.
‘I thought you’d never ask!’ he beamed.
Over lunch she discovered Magnus Davenport was a bit of a rascal. He insisted that she call him by his first name, but as he chatted away freely, about everything and everyone, she found that as well as being an outrageous gossip he was also a bit of a flirt—but quite harmless.
He openly told her that his wife, Joel’s mother, had thrown him out and divorced him years ago. ‘Said I was shiftless. Can you believe that? And that she’d had enough.’ Chesnie was on the point of feeling sorry for him when all of a sudden he laughed. ‘D’you know, I can’t really blame her? I never did hold down a job for long. Come to think of it, one of the happiest days I’ve had was when I retired.’
Chesnie had to laugh too; he had a sort of infectious quality about him. ‘I must think about getting back,’ she hinted, when he seemed inclined to linger over his coffee.
‘I’m going to the races tomorrow. Fancy coming with me?’ he asked.
She smiled and declined, and knew she was going to be late when Magnus Davenport drove her back to the Yeatman Trading building. She was not unduly alarmed that it was nearer half past two than two o’clock when Magnus dropped her off. She had worked late many times, and would cheerfully work late tonight if she hadn’t finished her workload by five.
‘I won’t come in—give me a call if you change your mind about the races,’ he said, and handed her his card.
Chesnie was smiling as she bade him goodbye, but had work on her mind as she opened the door to her office. She noticed at once that the communicating door to her employer’s office was open and that Joel was back from his business lunch.
Courtesy demanded that she commented on her lateness. She crossed that carpet and was aware that Joel knew she had returned, even though she hadn’t noticed him look up.
Nor did he glance up then, when she stood to the side of his desk. For some reason it niggled her. She’d be blessed if she’d say a word till he acknowledged her presence.
Just as she was about to turn around and go back to her office, however, he carefully laid down his pen. Then his head came up. He leaned back in his chair, silently appraising her, from the top of her red-blonde hair, to her slender but curvy figure in the royal blue suit, and all the way down to her shoes. Then, while she was studying his firm jaw, noticing that his mouth was pretty terrific even without the semblance of a smile, he moved his glance swiftly upwards and his blue eyes met her stubborn green ones head on.
Good, she’d got his attention. He waited—waited for her to speak first—and she felt quite irritated about that too. But she had been at pains to adopt a cool front; she wasn’t about to let it slip now.
‘Your father called,’ she began evenly, pleasantly. ‘He was disappointed not to see you,’ she added. ‘We went to lunch,’ she informed him, when Davenport said nothing.
‘No doubt you were able to help him over his disappointment,’ he threw in sourly, and at that moment pugilistic tendencies awakened in Chesnie that she’d had no idea she possessed. To her amazement she felt a momentary desire to poke Davenport Junior in the eye with something sharp and painful. ‘Who paid?’ he asked abruptly, his tone toughening.
What was it with him? The nerve! ‘Your father was my guest,’ she answered primly.
‘He conned you into taking him to lunch, didn’t he?’
‘Not at all. I liked him,’ she began. ‘He—’
‘I’ll reimburse you!’ Joel Davenport cut in sharply—and her anger went soaring, and with it her cool image.
‘No, you won’t!’ she flared hotly, and saw him smile—every bit as if he really enjoyed fracturing the cool front she’d displayed this past six weeks.
He shrugged. ‘So I won’t,’ he agreed, his tone all at once silky, and picked up his pen.
Chesnie went swiftly back to her own office. She felt then that she hated him. He’d done that on purpose—made her forget her poise for a moment. She didn’t want her front fractured; it made her feel vulnerable. She did not care for the feeling.
She slammed into her work and wanted nothing to do with him. This was what happened when you let personalities in on the scene. Meeting his father, liking him, laughing with him, had put a severe dent in the Chesnie Cosgrove she preferred to show the world. It seemed as if one Davenport had softened her up for another. Well, she wasn’t having it.
By four that afternoon her cool exterior was firmly back in place. At four-fifteen Larry Jenkins from Accounts came into her office with a query that wasn’t strictly in her domain, but she was pleased to be able to handle it. Though Larry didn’t stay long when the door opened and Joel Davenport strode in.
Joel watched him hastily leave. ‘I hear this corridor is alive with senior executives in need of guidance from you on some urgent matter or other,’ he commented.
What was she supposed to answer to that? And how did he know? Though she supposed that not a lot got by him—even when he wasn’t around! ‘Is there something you need guidance with?’ she enquired coolly of his visit—and didn’t hate him any more when he actually laughed, as though the way she’d bounced that back at him had amused him.
‘Are you still mad at me?’ he asked, with such a wealth of natural charm there that she began to like him very much again.
‘You deliberately provoked me!’ she accused primly.
‘Did I?’ he asked innocently—and a moment later was all business and instruction.
Chesnie went home that night in a happy frame of mind. She liked her job, had never felt so stimulated by any work she had done before, and she liked her boss too. He was…Chesnie came to, to realise she had drifted off for quite some time to thinking of Joel Davenport, her good-looking boss. My, did he have it all. Gina had rung him this morning, but he hadn’t stayed talking to her above a minute. Chesnie had an idea that Gina was on her way out.
Aware that her employer would be flying up to Scotland first thing on Thursday morning, Chesnie went into the office earlier than usual on Wednesday, so she could complete any information he needed to take with him before he left the office that night.
‘Good morning,’ she called as she went in, and hardly thought he would notice her early arrival.
‘Couldn’t sleep?’
She should have known better—there was no detail small enough that he’d miss. She grinned to herself and started her day.
She did not feel like grinning when, in Joel’s office, taking notes later that morning, the phone on her desk rang. Saving time, Joel stretched out a hand and pressed a button to divert the call to his phone, and took the call himself.
Whoever it was had been put through to the right phone in the first place. ‘Who wants her?’ he demanded. And while Chesnie was thinking it must be some business call, because her family would only phone in the direst emergency, he was charmingly saying, ‘I’m sorry, Pomeroy, my PA isn’t available just now.’ So saying, he put down the phone and terminated the call. Then, as cool as you like, he calmly carried on from where he had left off.
Feeling little short of amazed, Chesnie stared disbelievingly at her employer. Even while she was recognising that someone named Pomeroy had phoned to speak to her, and that the only Pomeroy she knew was Philip Pomeroy, Chesnie was astonished that Joel Davenport had not passed the call over to her.
She quickly found her voice. ‘Anyone I should ring back?’ she enquired politely, annoyance straining at the leash.
Joel looked across at her, his blue glance icy. ‘How do you know Philip Pomeroy?’ he demanded.
Ready to tell him it was none of his business, Chesnie decided that one of them should show some manners here. ‘I met him at a party.’ She forced the words out.
Joel grunted, didn’t look impressed, and stated coldly, ‘You do know he’s with the opposition?’
‘Opposition?’
‘In case you didn’t know he heads Symington Technology—our competitors in the technology field.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Chesnie answered, and started to feel cross that Joel Davenport was as good as reminding her that the work she did for him was highly confidential. She resented that unsaid reminder, resented his icy manner, and tilted her chin a defiant fraction. ‘You obviously know him better than I do,’ she replied, her control back. And, knowing she was pushing it, ‘Do you happen to have his number?’
Icy blue eyes bored into hers; she refused to back down. ‘I shouldn’t bother,’ he replied shortly. ‘He’ll ring again.’
Chesnie was still silently mutinying against Joel Davenport when she went back to her desk. She didn’t particularly wish to speak to Philip Pomeroy—and thank you, Nerissa, for telling him where I work—but that was for her to decide, not Davenport. He spoke to his girlfriends when they rang him at the office. Where did he get off not allowing her that same courtesy? Even if Philip Pomeroy was the opposition.
Chesnie was not feeling any more Davenport-friendly when, around midday, just as he had predicted, Philip Pomeroy rang again. Had the door between the two offices not been open, and Joel Davenport privy to everything she said, Chesnie might well have refused Philip’s invitation to dinner. As it was, she knew full well he had heard her ‘Hello, Philip’ and would more than likely be tuned in. Stubbornly she determined that Davenport should know exactly what she thought of his offensive, if unspoken, reminder that her work was highly confidential.
‘Say yes,’ Philip was urging. ‘You can’t still be unpacking.’
She glanced through to the other office—Davenport appeared to be working, but she knew his capability to handle several things at once. ‘I’d love to go out with you,’ she heard herself reply—and loved it when Davenport turned his head to glance her way. He was unsmiling. She smiled—she couldn’t help it—then dipped her head so he shouldn’t see her smile, though she guessed he had.
‘Tonight?’ Philip was pressing. ‘Give me your address and I’ll pick you up at—’
‘Er—I can’t tonight,’ she interrupted hurriedly. Heaven alone knew what time she would finish work tonight. Tomorrow, though, with Joel up in Scotland, should be much easier. ‘I can make tomorrow if—’
Philip snapped up the alternative, asked again for her address, and when she had told him where she lived he, as busy as she, said he would look forward to tomorrow and rang off.
After that Chesnie was too busy to give thought to anything but the work she was involved with. She stayed late at her desk; so too did the man in the next room. At ten past seven she tidied her desk for the day, double-checked that Joel had all the information he would need for his trip, and went in to see him.
They spent another ten minutes finalising everything, then she said she was going home—and found she was looking into a pair of inscrutable sharp blue eyes.
He was unsmiling at first, but then relaxed to say quietly, ‘You’re turning out to be something of a treasure, Chesnie Cosgrove.’
Her heart gave the most peculiar bump, and she was so delighted by the compliment that she almost fell for his charm and smiled. But she wasn’t forgetting his attitude earlier in the day, so she remained pleasant, but otherwise aloof, as—like any well-brought-up PA would—she wished him a pleasant trip and went home.
Strangely—or perhaps, she mused, it wasn’t so strange—Joel Davenport was in her head very much that night. She could not remember ever being so annoyed with an employer before. Hector Browning didn’t count; it was his father she had worked for.
Feeling unable to settle, Joel Davenport still in her head, she rang her sister at half past nine. ‘I expected you to ring before this,’ Nerissa said by way of apology. ‘He rang, didn’t he?’
‘Did you have to tell him where I work?’
‘What else could I do? You said not to give him your phone number. And anyway, I ran out of excuses. Where’s he taking you?’
‘I don’t know. He’s calling for me at—’
‘Hah!’ Nerissa cut in. ‘You’re going out with him!’
Chesnie had to laugh. ‘Tomorrow,’ she agreed, then chatted for another few minutes and rang off—to have Joel Davenport back in her head. He thought she was a treasure. She found she was smiling—and quickly cancelled that. Soft soap!
As anticipated, she was less busy on Thursday, and was extremely pleased that she seemed to coast through her work that day. True, there wasn’t the same buzz about the office with Joel not there, but at least it looked as if she would be leaving on time that night. Which would suit her quite nicely. Time to go home, have a relaxing bath and get ready to go out with Philip Pomeroy.
At five past four she glanced at her watch, assessed the work she still had to do and knew for certain that she would be leaving at five. The best-laid plans…
At four-thirty her phone rang. ‘Joel Davenport’s office,’ she answered pleasantly.
‘Hello, Chesnie,’ the man himself answered, and her insides went all kind of crumbly. Ridiculous, she told herself stoutly. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ he began, not sounding sorry at all, ‘but I’ve arranged an early meeting in London tomorrow. Do you think you can have some paperwork ready for me?’
‘Of course,’ she answered automatically, and had her notepad in hand. ‘Fire away.’
She was getting writer’s cramp before he was halfway finished. Was he joking? It would take her hours to complete this little lot! She almost stopped him then and there, to remind him that she had a date that night. But remembered in time how at her job interview he had asked her supposing she had a date but he needed her to accompany him at short notice. Without hesitation she’d indicated it would not be a problem—that she would change her plans for the evening. This wasn’t accompanying him anywhere, but it amounted to the same thing.
‘I haven’t given you too much to do there, have I?’ he asked, when he eventually came to an end.
‘What are treasures for?’ she found she had answered, before she could think about it.
‘I knew I could rely on you,’ he commented charmingly, and rang off.
Chesnie was busying herself making a start, collecting information together, before she realised that there was no way she could get everything sorted, no way she could type up reams and reams of confidential matter, and keep her date with Philip Pomeroy.
Her hand went to the phone, but before she could carry out her intention to put a call through to Symington Technology she had another thought. How about if she got all the paperwork already to hand checked over, then typed as much as she could of the new stuff before she went home? Then, with her computer installed at home in that apology for a second bedroom, she could work as late as she had to after her dinner with Philip. Brilliant, or what?
Having gone over the notion, Chesnie couldn’t fault the idea. She’d have to get up early to have everything ready on Joel’s desk for when he came in—she wished she knew what time that was—but couldn’t see any problem. If this was what being a senior PA was all about, then she would prove she was very much up to the job.
She was glad to make herself comfortable in Philip Pomeroy’s car on the way to the restaurant. It was the first chance she’d had to sit and relax since that half past four phone call. She had rushed from the office at five past six, laden with folders and stationery. She had taken the quickest of showers and had selected a short-sleeved, straight-skirted black dress. Although her wardrobe was not extensive it was of good quality. She had been ready and, anxious not to waste a minute, had been busy typing when the outer door buzzer had sounded, announcing the arrival of her escort.
The Linton, the restaurant Philip had chosen, was elegant, discreet, and, she didn’t doubt, pricey. Chesnie found Philip Pomeroy a pleasant companion, too sophisticated to be obvious or pushy, and she began to relax more and more.
‘I had no idea you worked for Joel Davenport,’ Philip remarked as they began their meal. ‘You can’t have been at Yeatman Trading long or I’m sure I’d have heard.’
That surprised her. Then she wondered if it should have. Being a business rival, would Joel know the name of Philip’s PA? Very probably he did, she mused.
‘I’ve worked for Joel for almost two months now,’ she saw no harm in admitting.
‘You changed jobs around the same time you moved into your new flat,’ Philip documented. ‘How do you find working for Davenport? Is he—?’
‘Hmm, I’m sorry, Philip, would you mind very much if neither of us talked about our work?’
He stared at her, plainly liked what he saw, and agreed. ‘It’s a pact. Business if off the agenda. But—’ he smiled ‘—you can tell Davenport from me that he’s a lucky devil, able to look at you every day. Now, tell me how you’re settling in to your new flat?’
During their second course Chesnie learned that Philip had been married and divorced. That didn’t worry her—who hadn’t? She was growing to like him very much, even though she knew that it would never be more than that. He was amusing, and had just said something that made her laugh when, glancing from him, laughter still on her curving lips, she was startled to find she was looking into the steel-blue eyes of someone several tables away. The glint in those eyes warned her she was in trouble over something.
With a coolness she was suddenly far from feeling Chesnie turned back to her dinner companion. She offered some light comment, she knew not what, her mind busy with the fact that Joel Davenport had flown back from Scotland and all too plainly, if her answers at the job interview meant anything, fully expected her to still be slaving away at the office.
It annoyed her that he should think she had fallen down on the job. And that annoyance caused her to smile more, perhaps laugh a little more, at Philip’s amusingly light conversation than she would otherwise.
At any rate Philip seemed pleased, and she didn’t give a button what Davenport thought. She knew what he didn’t—that she was going home to do his work so he should have it on his desk for eight in the morning. So he could go and take a running jump.
‘More coffee?’ Philip asked.
‘No, thank you,’ she refused pleasantly. ‘It’s been a super evening, but…’
‘But you’re a working girl?’
‘Something like that,’ she answered with a smile, and smiled again when, having to pass Davenport’s table—curse it—Philip civilly paused to say hello.
‘Pomeroy,’ Joel acknowledged, getting to his feet. ‘Chesnie.’ He included her, and introduced his sultry, if terrific-looking companion. ‘Do you know Imogen?’
Brief introductions followed, where Joel did not mention that Chesnie was his PA and that he was saving a few short and sharp words for her. After the way she slaved for him! Let him try! Then she and Philip were moving on.
Philip came to the outer door of her apartment building with her. ‘I hope you’re going to allow me to see you again, Chesnie?’ he asked.
She liked him, he was good company—and she had an idea it annoyed Joel Davenport that she went out with the opposition. ‘I’d like that,’ she answered. But, thinking he might have this coming Saturday in mind, added, ‘I’ll give you my phone number. Perhaps next week some time?’
‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he said, and when he had her phone number he leaned forward. Though, perhaps sensing her instant withdrawal, he satisfied himself to kiss her cheek, and stood back to wait while she went indoors.
Despite the fact that her home had been cobbled together with pieces of furniture given to her by her parents, grandparents and her sisters, and the few additions she had contributed herself, Chesnie had to admit everything blended in well to give her apartment a very homely feel.
But there was no time to make herself comfortable in it now. Time only to rinse her hands and head for that tiny second bedroom now laughingly called a study.
She had been at work for forty-five minutes when someone rang the outer buzzer. Philip? Why would he come back? She left her work and went into her small hall to take up the telephone that was connected to the outer front door.
‘Who is it?’ she enquired, and felt faintly staggered at the reply she received.
‘Davenport,’ he informed her crisply.
Davenport! Surely he hadn’t left the lovely Imogen to have those few short and sharp words with his PA that had been brewing? At this hour? She didn’t believe it—though he wasn’t sounding too affable.
‘You’d better come up!’ she replied, equally crisply, while wondering—had she done anything that could be called grounds for dismissal? She didn’t think so, and surely Joel Davenport wouldn’t call at her home to sack her! Or would he?
She stayed in the hall to wait the minute or so it would take him to reach her door, and mentally braced herself for whatever he had called to see her about. At his first ring she had the door open. For several seconds, like warring adversaries, they stood coldly eyeing each other. He was the first to speak.
‘You’re still dressed!’ he stated hostilely, his glance going over her black dress, drawn for a second to the delicate contours of her cleavage, which had never before been on view.
Feeling very much like holding her hands protectively in front of her bosom, Chesnie instead turned from him. ‘Come in,’ she invited, and led the way into her sitting room, realising that it would have been just the same to him if she had gone to bed—he would still have rung her apartment buzzer.
In her sitting room she turned to face him. But before she could ask him why he had called, he was telling her, ‘You knew I needed that paperwork for the morning!’ Clearly he had stopped by the office from the airport and discovered that the paperwork he’d ordered wasn’t locked away in his drawer. ‘Yet you deliberately—’ He began to sort her out. But she’d had enough before he started.
‘I’m glad you called,’ she cut in calmly, inwardly boiling. ‘There are one or two queries I need your help with. If you’re not too tired after your busy day, I wonder if you’d help me?’ He was looking at her with narrowed eyes, as if wondering what her game was. Oh, joy; oh, bliss. ‘Have you a moment to come to my study?’ Study? Pretentious or what? ‘I’m working on your paperwork now.’
There was a definite glint in his eyes now, she saw. He had called looking for a fight. She had disarmed him—and he didn’t like it. Tough.
Whether he was impressed or not that she’d had no intention of letting him down, she had no idea. But he followed her to her ‘study’, where she had already printed off some of the matter she had typed.
Swiftly he dealt with the queries which she had been going to make a note of, but from the unsmiling look of him she suspected he didn’t care at all to have his cause for righteous anger taken away from him, and was still looking for a fight.
‘Naturally, I intend to have everything completed and on your desk by eight in the morning.’ She nicely rubbed it in.
A hostile look was the thanks she received for her trouble. She was almost purring as they left her workroom and she accompanied him out to the hall. He soon put an end to any lofty feelings, however.
Joel Davenport had his hand on the door latch when he looked down on her from his superior height, paused, and then commented shortly, ‘After our discussion yesterday, I hardly expected you to be out with Pomeroy tonight!’
What discussion was that? Her memory of it was that Joel had enlightened her to the fact that Philip Pomeroy was head of the opposition. And she felt incensed again that Davenport, for a second time, felt he had to remind her of the confidentiality of her position!
‘Do you honestly believe that Philip would have telephoned me at the office and told you who he was if he was after sensitive information from me?’ she flared. And, her cool image suddenly in tatters around her, ‘Do you honestly think, when I’ve worked for you for almost two months now, that I would part with any information, confidential or otherwise?’ she erupted—and came the closest yet to setting about him when, infuriatingly, he stared at her, seemed again to enjoy seeing her lose her cool front, and then had the sheer audacity—to smile!
‘It seems a shame that, because of pressure of work, you sent him from your first date without even a goodnight kiss,’ he commented charmingly.
Oh, to kick his shin! Chesnie strove hard for control. ‘It rather looks as if you’re going to bed kissless too,’ she answered sweetly—and was on the receiving end of a look that very clearly stated ‘Fat chance’. Though he made no comment with regard to whether the delectable Imogen was waiting for him somewhere.
Instead, he opened the door, and was on his way out when he bade her silkily, ‘Don’t work too late.’
Chesnie glared at his departing back. Pig!

CHAPTER THREE
OVER the month that followed Chesnie grew more and more comfortable with her job, and now found the work well within her capabilities. It was hard work, many late evenings, and once, when there had been a big boardroom pow-wow, she had worked a whole weekend. But she loved it, thrived on it, and couldn’t think of ever doing anything else. It was as though she had found her niche in life, as though working for Joel was what she was meant to be doing.
Ever since that night when he had called at her flat and found, contrary to his expectations, that she had not fallen down on the job and that his paperwork would be ready for him for the next day, as required, they had settled down to a good, mutually respectful, harmonious working relationship.
Since that night too, the night she had given Philip Pomeroy her home number, Philip had made frequent use of it—but had not again telephoned her at her office. She sometimes went out with him, but he knew by then—or she hoped he did—that she was only interested in being friends. True, he always kissed her cheek on parting—but friends did that sort of thing. She was seeing Philip again tomorrow evening.
But Philip Pomeroy was far from her thoughts that Friday morning when the phone on her desk suddenly called for attention. ‘Joel Davenport’s office,’ she answered automatically.
‘That has to be the delightful Chesnie,’ said a mature voice she took a moment or two to place.
‘Magnus!’ she exclaimed, a smile in her voice. ‘I’m afraid Joel’s out for the rest of the morning, and part of this afternoon. Did you want him for anything in particular? Or is there something I can help you with?’
‘I haven’t had a chat to you in a long while,’ he replied.
That was true. It must be all of five, maybe six weeks since she’d taken Joel’s father to lunch. ‘How are you?’ she asked, sensing he wanted to chat a little.
Several seconds of silence met her enquiry, then, his voice sounding frail and elderly all of a sudden, he answered at last. ‘To tell you the truth, Chesnie, there have been days when I’ve felt better.’
‘You’re unwell?’ she questioned, starting to feel worried. From his earlier bright tone—clearly a front—he had gone to sound alarmingly shaky.
‘I’ll—be all right,’ he replied bravely.
That wasn’t good enough. ‘Have you seen a doctor?’ she asked, not feeling at all as calm as she was pretending to be.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he repeated, which she took to mean that he hadn’t.
‘Do you think you should?’
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, which she just knew meant he had no intention of seeing a doctor.
‘Do you have anybody with you?’ she asked.
‘Who wants to keep company with an old codger like me?’ he answered, plainly not feeling his best.
Chesnie chatted to him for about another five minutes, trying to find out what the exact trouble was. He wasn’t saying. She gave up when she realised it might be something he was a little embarrassed about.
She was still feeling worried when Magnus rang off. It could be something; it could be nothing. She knew where she could contact Joel—but what if it was nothing? What would Joel do, anyway? Leave his meeting to go and check on his father? From what she’d gleaned, Joel wasn’t over-struck on his father anyhow.
For the next half-hour thoughts of Magnus Davenport being unwell and on his own chewed at her. It was a quarter to one when she couldn’t stand it any longer. She liked him. She decided to contact the switchboard, ask them to take messages for her and go for an early lunch. She had his card somewhere—she’d drive over to see him.
It took her three quarters of an hour to get to Magnus Davenport’s address, and, having pulled up at the very nice-looking house, Chesnie hoped he would be fit enough to come to the door. It might be that he hadn’t moved from where he’d been sitting when he had telephoned her.
She was, she discovered, wrong in a lot of her assumptions. Her ring at the doorbell was answered immediately, and, standing there smiling, Magnus Davenport looked as sprightly as ever.
She opened her mouth—he spoke first. ‘I thought you’d never get here!’ he exclaimed cheerfully.
He had been expecting her? ‘You’re—not ill?’ she questioned. He looked and sounded in the best of health!
‘I’m lonely,’ he answered.
And Chesnie just stared at him. There was nothing wrong with him, and she was going to have to work late tonight to make up for her earlier lack of concentration and the time she’d taken out when she should have been working. ‘You want me to take you to lunch?’ she guessed—he was dressed as smart as new paint.
‘I’ve had a few winners lately.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll pay.’
She wanted to be cross with him—he had conned her into driving to see him. But how could she be cross? He was grinning like a mischievous schoolboy, and had admitted to being lonely.
He was his usual indiscreet chatty self over lunch, with tales that most often began with, ‘When Dorothea threw me out…’ This way Chesnie learned he had been on his uppers with nowhere to go when Joel had come to the rescue and had bought him his house. Joel, it seemed, also gave him a monthly allowance.
‘I’d rather have had a lump sum, but Joel said I’d be bound to spend it all in one go on the gee-gees. He knows me too well,’ Magnus complained wryly. ‘Arlene Yeatman’s still after him, I suppose?’
Arlene Enderby, née Yeatman. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘She was after him even before she ditched her husband and got her divorce. She—’
‘I don’t think you should tell me…’
‘Not you as well!’ He laughed. ‘Dorothea always used to accuse me of being worse than some gossipy old washerwoman.’
Chesnie smiled a gentle smile. ‘You still care for her, don’t you?’
‘Dorothea? Adore the old battleaxe,’ he admitted, and Chesnie’s smile turned into a laugh. He really was incorrigible.
She was very late getting back to her office. It had gone three when she hurried in—Lord knew what time she’d be working until that night. And Joel was back, the door between the two offices open.
First dropping her bag down on her desk, she went in to see him. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she apologised, out of courtesy. ‘I hope you didn’t need me for anything?’
‘Been shopping?’ he enquired mildly, his glance going over her sage-green short-jacketed suit, its just-above-the-knee skirt showing the long, slender length of her legs and trim ankles.
‘I’ve been out to lunch,’ she answered.
‘The time you put in you’re entitled to more than an extended lunch,’ he replied, and she knew she was right; their working relationship really was harmonious. Or she’d thought she was right, until all at once his relaxed manner vanished and, ‘Who with?’ he demanded.
Slightly shaken by his change in attitude, it took all her will-power to stay looking calm. ‘As it happens, I had lunch with your father,’ she replied coolly—she had intended to tell him anyway, and to mention his father’s loneliness at the same time.
‘The devil you did! He came here, conning you—’
‘He rang,’ she cut in, starting to get cross and having great difficulty in hiding it. ‘I got the impression that Magnus wasn’t feeling well. You weren’t here, and I didn’t want to disturb your meeting if—’
‘You would have interrupted my meeting on account of that cunning old fox spinning you some yarn?’ he queried, looking astounded.
Chesnie, realising from that comment that Joel knew his father only too well, ignored Joel’s look of astonishment, though didn’t feel too clever at how easily she had been taken in.
‘He didn’t actually say he was ill,’ she confessed, recalling that Magnus had merely said that there were days when he had felt better.
‘But he alarmed you sufficiently for you to decide that rather than contact me—for which I thank you,’ he inserted sarcastically, not looking in the least grateful, ‘you’d meet him for lunch.’
‘I didn’t plan it at all. I just—got worried. So in the end I drove over to see him.’
‘You went to his house?’ Hostility was rife. ‘How did you know where he lived?’
What was this? ‘He gave me his card so I could ring him—the last time I had lunch with him.’
‘He wanted you to call him?’
If Joel was getting angry, Chesnie was getting furious. ‘Only if I wanted to go to the races with him, which I didn’t. Anyway—’
‘Anyway, you went over to his home and found he wasn’t at all unwell, but merely wanted to dupe you out of another lunch.’
‘He paid!’ she erupted, no longer able to hold it in. ‘And don’t talk about him like that!’ she snapped, her control flying. She was too furious to care that his eyebrows shot up in amazement. ‘He’s your father,’ she stormed on. ‘And he’s lonely, and—’
‘And no doubt you cheered him up!’ Joel snarled, getting angrily to his feet, not at all enamoured of her telling him what not to do, nor her nerve in taking it upon herself to defend his father.
‘What are you implying?’ she flew, angry sparks flashing in her furious green eyes.
‘You tell me! What’s going on?’ he demanded, coming round to where she stood.
‘Don’t you start!’ she exploded, hurling the words at him, feeling within an ace of hitting him. She strove desperately for control. No man had ever riled her so! Somehow, though, she managed to harness her fury, sufficient anyway to inform Joel Davenport crisply, ‘Just as I had no intention of becoming Hector Browning’s stepmother, I’ve no intention of becoming your stepmother either!’
She saw his jaw clench, but recognised that he seemed to have got to grips with his anger too. Though she wasn’t feeling in any way friendly to him when, ‘Close the door on your way out,’ he instructed her coldly.

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