Tiger Man
PENNY JORDAN
Penny Jordan needs no introduction as arguably the most recognisable name writing for Mills & Boon. We have celebrated her wonderful writing with a special collection, many of which for the first time in eBook format and all available right now.It wasn't her job he was after… Radio Wyechester was failing, and no one could hide the fact much longer. As advertising controller, Storm Templeton stood to lose a lot. She had worked long and hard to garner clients for the station.So she should have been happy when Jago Marsh stepped in. He was noted for his media expertise - as well as for a few other things that Storm didn't care to think about! No. She had no need of this suave, commanding man, either at the office - or at home…
Tiger Man
Penny Jordan
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#uf628e4cc-fa35-506d-a710-46f16dad757a)
Title Page (#u214792e2-6992-5896-8257-876071771677)
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ufcae9997-ffcd-5e91-b692-64c6703096b4)
‘COME on in, Storm,’ David Winters invited, when he saw the familiar female shape of his Advertising Controller hovering anxiously outside his office door.
‘I’ve only been back a few minutes,’ he added, as Storm did as she was bid, dropping a light kiss on her cheek.
‘Yes, I know,’ Storm agreed, too preoccupied to question the almost passionless embrace and her own lack of reaction to it. She and David had been going out together for over a year and although Storm had no doubts about her love for him she acknowledged that it did lack the passionate intensity she had heard discussed among her contemporaries. But this was how she wanted it. With David she felt safe; their relationship was as comfortable as a well worn shoe. And as boring? She dismissed the thought as disloyal and concentrated instead on the news which had brought her to his office in the first place.
David was the controller and one of the shareholders in the independent radio station, he and his team ran from the small market town of Wyechester, broadcasting throughout the Cotswolds. Still in its very early infancy, the station had been going through a bad patch lately, with audience ratings dropping and complaints from several of their backers who had looked upon the venture as a potential source of unlimited revenue. Privately Storm thought David could have done far better in his choice of co-shareholders, but she was far too loyal to him to say so.
Three weeks ago he had been summoned to London for a discussion concerning the future of the radio station, with the Independent Broadcasting Authority, and it was the results of this discussion that had brought Storm hot-foot to David’s office. Passionately dedicated to the success of their venture, she asked anxiously.
‘Well, how did it go? Are they going to revoke our licence?’
David shook his head.
‘It’s not quite as bad as that,’ he assured her.
‘Oh, David! You managed to persuade them to give us another chance!’
For a moment he seemed about to agree, and then he admitted unhappily:
‘Not me. It was all Jago Marsh’s doing.’
‘Jago Marsh?’ Storm stared at him. ‘How did he come to be involved? I should have thought the great white wonder of the media was far too lordly to involve himself in our paltry affairs,’ she said bitterly.
Jago Marsh had an unparalleled reputation in the world of independent television and radio. Storm had only seen him in the flesh once. She had been a student at the time and he had visited her college to give a lecture.
How excited she had been at the time! He had been something of a hero to her in those days. Everyone who knew anything about the media knew of his meteoric rise to fame and fortune. He had started with the B.B.C. and then progressed to various independent radio stations before starting up his own channel in London and turning it into an overnight success.
Storm had soon been disillusioned, though. Oh, his lecture had been stimulating enough, and his darkly handsome face and athletic physique had given him a presence it was hard to ignore. However, he had concluded his lecture on a note which Storm personally thought unwarranted and cheap.
Her own interest in advertising had developed while she was still at school, coupled with an enthusiasm for local radio which had led to her wholehearted belief that for the small, local business, there was no better form of advertising, and to this end she was determined to find herself the sort of job that would give free rein to her enthusiasm.
It had come rather as a douche of cold water, therefore, to hear Jago Marsh, whose career she had followed with such interest, announce in his crisply autocratic voice that by and large he considered that the field of local radio was best left to the male sex.
He had elaborated on this claim by adding that it was his experience that girls looked upon local radio as a stepping stone to a television career with all its attendant glamour.
His accusations had stung and Storm considered them grossly unfair. She had wanted to tell him as much, but the length of his lecture had left no time for questions.
Still nursing her indignation, she had seen him leaving the college. A long, sleek car was waiting for him and in it sat a perfectly groomed blonde, her voice clearly audible to Storm as she murmured seductively, ‘Ah, there you are at last, darling. I thought you must have been detained by one of those wretchedly adoring little girls one always meets at these places.’
Jago Marsh’s reply had been equally clear.
‘They wouldn’t have detained me for long. Adoration has always bored me, although most of the time I suspect that it’s merely a means to an end—you can have my body if I can have a job. If I had my way women would be banned from the media entirely.’
He was despicable, Storm had seethed, watching him drive carelessly away, but from that day on she had doubled her efforts to do well at college, determined that if and when she was fortunate enough to get a job she would do it as well as—and better than—any man.
Aware of her anger, David wondered where she got her unbounded energy from. Hair the colour of sun-warmed beech leaves curled riotously round a small heart-shaped face. Eyes of a deep, misty-violet frowned determinedly behind a fringe of thick dark lashes, her small chin tilted firmly as she waited for his reply.
‘It was unfortunate that he should be there.’ David admitted. ‘I bumped into him in the foyer. We started in the B.B.C. together. He asked me what I was doing in town.’ He shrugged tiredly. ‘He could have found out easily enough anyhow, so I told him, and the next thing I knew he’d taken over.’
Typical of the man, Storm thought briefly.
‘I suppose I ought to be grateful to him for salvaging something. I’m sure the Authority were going to revoke our licence. Those last opinion poll results about our programmes were pretty damning. Of course Jago didn’t lose any time in pointing out to me that we were badly under-capitalised.’
Privately Storm had to acknowledge that this was quite true. Apart from the small amount of shares held by David the major proportion of the remainder were held by a local businessman, Sam Townley, who owned a large supermarket chain. Storm did not like Sam. She thought him both grasping and inclined to cut corners where he thought it might be to his own advantage, and he was very begrudging of the money spent on what was really basic equipment for the radio station. It had been Storm’s opinion for a long time that David should seek another investor, but he had not seemed inclined to agree, and in some ways she blamed their present problems on this reluctance, although she would never have admitted it to a soul. The shortage of money had made it impossible for them to branch out in ways that might have ensured their success, but it didn’t help to hear her own views reinforced by Jago Marsh.
‘Does he have any suggestions as to how we might improve our capital?’ Storm enquired sarcastically.
David regarded her unhappily.
’Not our capital, perhaps, but as far as our services go, he had plenty to say.’
He paused, and something in his expression communicated itself to Storm.
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ she asked slowly. ‘Something you haven’t told me.’
David had his back to her. At thirty-two he had already developed a vaguely defensive stoop, his fair hair falling untidily over his eyes, the suit he had worn for his journey to London, hanging a little loosely on his narrow frame.
‘The only way the I.B.A. would agree to continue our licence was if Jago came in with us in an advisory capacity.’
For a moment Storm was too taken aback to speak, and then she rallied, exclaiming bitterly:
‘And how is he supposed to do that? The last thing I heard was that he was off on a lecture tour of the States—I read it in the paper only the other week. But I suppose he’s so egotistical that he thinks he can advise us, give his lecture tour and run his own station all at the same time. After all, a small venture like ours shouldn’t take up more than half an hour or so of his time every other week. Is that it? I suppose we ought to be grateful,’ she added before David could speak. ‘At least he’ll be out of our hair, but it makes me so mad. When we eventually do make a success of the station—and we will, I know we will, he’ll collect all the congratulations and we’ll have done all the work.’
‘It’s not going to be quite like that, Storm,’ David told her. ‘Jago isn’t going to the States. He’s cancelled his tour, and he says the London station is running perfectly now. He’s pretty confident of the management he’s got down there. He’s got interests in television too, of course, but right now what he’s looking for, so he told me, is a new challenge, a chance to get back to the roots of local radio and see how it’s changed in the last decade. He’s coming down here, Storm, to run the station himself.’
Storm had grown steadily paler as David delivered this speech. Now she stared at him in disbelief.
‘He can’t be!’ she objected. ‘Oh, David, surely you didn’t agree to that!’
‘I didn’t have much chance,’ he told her defensively. ‘The I.B.A. were all for it. As far as they’re concerned he can’t do any wrong. He had plenty of pull with them, I could tell that right away. How could I make them listen to me? They’ve given us another three months to try and turn the corner and…’
‘They?’ Storm asked dangerously, her eyes flashing. ‘Or Jago Marsh? What does he hope to prove by doing this?’
‘It’s the challenge that attracts him.’ David replied a little bitterly. ‘He hasn’t changed since we were at the B.B.C. together, unless it’s to become even more ruthless.’
‘I suppose he think’s he’s going to trample all over us, acting the big “I am”,’ Storm complained. How well she remembered the cool mockery with which he had outlined his objections to women in the media, somehow subtly conveying the opinion that women had only one role in his life. Well, if he thought he was going to treat her as a sex object he had another thing coming!
‘Why did you let the Authority foist him off on you?’ she asked David unhappily. ‘If they have to put someone in to monitor our progress, why not someone else?’
‘If it had been left up to them I think they would have revoked our licence altogether,’ David admitted, not willing to admit that the Authority, far from giving him the opportunity to state his reluctance to have Jago join them, had seemed to expect him to be overwhelmed with gratitude for his intervention.
‘Your own job should be safe enough,’ David told her. ‘You’re very highly qualified, Storm, and your references from Frampton’s were excellent.’
‘But I haven’t exactly achieved great success since I’ve been here, have I?’ Storm said bitterly.
She had come to the job from her previous position as an accounts assistant with a large advertising agency in Oxford, full of enthusiasm and ideas, a plan of campaign carefully mapped out from judicious observation of the way in which other successful radio stations handled their advertising. But the last twelve months had not proved as promising as she had hoped.
‘Time we weren’t here, Storm,’ David announced, glancing at his watch. ‘Meet you downstairs in ten minutes?’
Storm nodded. David often gave her a lift home and it was these shared journeys which had initially given rise to their romance.
‘When are you going to tell the others?’ Storm asked from the door.
‘They already know,’ David told her tiredly. ‘Pete was waiting for me when I got back, and there didn’t seem any point in keeping it a secret.’
Pete Calder was one of their two D.J.s, something of a live wire, who made no bones about the fact that he found Storm attractive. An easy friendship had developed between them, and Storm sensed that Pete would have liked to take it a stage farther had she been agreeable.
It was five to six when she walked into the cluttered, boxy room that doubled as an office-cum-staff room-cum-canteen, to collect her coat and bag. Four people were lounging round a table drinking mugs of coffee and munching broken biscuits; the two technicians who worked on the evening shift—Radio Wyechester operated twenty-four hours a day—the disc jockey for that evening, who was Pete, and one of the typists, a small fair-haired girl named Sue Barker.
The buzz of gossip faded a little when Storm walked in. Pete beckoned her over, brandishing his cup.
‘Got time for one before you go, my lovely?’ he asked Storm. ‘Or is the great man waiting?’
Storm’s eyes sparkled a little at this sarcastic reference to David, but wisely she let it go. It wasn’t possible to keep their personal relationship private in such a compact group and sometimes Storm bitterly resented Pete’s contention that because David was quiet and introverted, he must also be weak and spineless. She loved David’s gentleness, she often told herself, and if at times he seemed to bow down to others, it was because he was innately too considerate to argue. Personally she could not think of anything worse than the type of man who dominated with his personality.
‘I’ve got a few minutes yet,’ she told Pete, guessing from his excited air what had been the topic of conversation before she walked in.
‘What do you think about Jago Marsh joining us?’ Pete asked confirming her thoughts.
He had deep blue eyes and wildly curling fair hair. Under his air of casual bonhomie lurked a keen brain and an acid sense of humour, but Storm refused to let him get under her guard, and a certain sense of mutual respect had grown up between them. Pete was the more popular of their two D.J.s, and at twenty-three a year older than Storm.
She was too angry for caution and answered furiously, ‘That the I.B.A. have a nerve off loading him on us!’
‘Come on, Storm,’ Pete objected. ‘We ought to be down on our knees thanking God that we’ve got him. Face it, David might be a nice guy, but there was no way he was going to make this station work. With Jago Marsh in charge…’
‘In charge! He’s coming in in an advisory capacity, that’s all,’ Storm reminded him. ‘David’s still in charge.’
For a moment there was silence from the others, and then Pete’s eyes crinkled in amusement.
‘That’s our Storm! Faithful to old David until the last. Jago’s going to have to watch himself with you around, honey!’
General laughter greeted this sally, and Pete slipped a friendly arm round Storm’s shoulders, pulling her against him.
‘Don’t go into a sulk on me,’ he teased. ‘Even you can’t deny that our David isn’t exactly the dynamic type. He’s a nice guy, Storm—no one denies that—but you’ve only got to look at our ratings—at the way he refuses to stand up to Sam Townley and tell him outright that we won’t get anywhere until we get some decent equipment, to see that he just isn’t cut out for this game. You need to be tough!’
‘Like Jago Marsh, I suppose you mean?’ Storm interrupted bitterly.
‘Be fair!’ Pete objected. ‘You’ve only got to look at our ratings to see how badly we’re doing. No one knows that better than you.’ Pete was ambitious and his eyes were hard as he looked at her mutinous face. ‘Come on, Storm, you can’t have forgotten what happened when you went to see old man Harmer already.’
Storm had not! John Harmer’s comments had rankled and she was still smarting from her interview with him. Harmer Brothers were the largest local employers. They owned two woollen mills, turning out fine cloth in a small and exclusive range of tweeds, using Cotswold wool. Storm had spent weeks preparing an advertising campaign to put before Mr Harmer, but she had got scant response. Despite the rates she had offered—pared down to the bone—and the fact that she had pointed out their widespread audience and limitless possibilities, John Harmer’s reception had been the opposite of enthusiastic.
‘Waste money advertising on a two-bit outfit that only appeals to kids and housewives?’ he had scoffed. ‘I’m a businessman, my dear, not a philanthropist.’
His words had stung and continued to do so, because his comments held an element of truth. Many, many times Storm had tried to persuade David to adopt a more forward-thinking attitude; to develop their range so that they could include more topical subjects; to promote a weekly disco as the other, more successful stations did, but all her suggestions had been met with a gentle but definite rebuff. However, she chose not to remember her past disappointments now, concentrating fiercely instead on her loyalty to David, ignoring the small voice inside her asking if their ‘adviser’ had been anyone but Jago Marsh she would have reacted more favourably.
She despised the man, she told herself angrily, taking no part in the excited conversation going on around her as the others discussed the changes likely to be made.
‘I can tell you one thing,’ Pete announced confidently. ‘He won’t put up with Sam Townley’s tricks for very long. I mean, just look at this place for a start…’
Their studios were shabby and ill-equipped, Storm was forced to admit.
Initially it had been David’s intention to house the venture in purpose-built offices just outside Wyechester, but Sam Townley had soon put a stop to such ambitious thoughts. As the main investor he claimed that he should have the greatest say in how their capital was spent, and David found himself forced to take up a tenancy of some cramped offices over one of Sam’s supermarkets.
‘What do you think Jago Marsh is going to do?’ Storm asked Pete angrily, infuriated by his contemptuous dismissal of all that David had tried to do. ‘Wave a magic wand and produce a modern, fully equipped radio station?’
‘Well, whatever he does it can’t be worse than David’s efforts.’ Pete fought back. ‘For God’s sake, Storm! You might be in love with the guy, but when are you going to see him how he really is? You feel sorry for him because he’s always the under-dog, but whose fault is that? I don’t know what you see in him…’
They had had this argument before, and as always it put Storm on the defensive. She could not explain to Pete, with all his frank appreciation of the modern approach towards sex, that with David she did not feel threatened, forced to give more of herself than she wished, either emotionally or physically, and that she loved him for his gentle acceptance of this.
As she got up to leave she was frowning unhappily. Just what did they think Jago Marsh was? A magician? Well, they would soon be disillusioned. He was a cold, ruthless man, incapable of understanding the feelings of others, arrogant and overbearing. Without the slightest effort she could remember every line of his hard-boned face, every inflection of his voice as he denounced her sex, and she was almost trembling with anger as she stepped out into the street to meet David.
He was sitting in his car waiting for her, and Storm smiled at him as he opened the passenger door of the homely little Ford. He made no attempt to kiss or touch her despite the fact that the car-park was deserted and he had been away from her all day.
It was just over half an hour’s drive to the village where she lived with her parents, and they normally sat in a companionable silence listening to Radio Wyechester.
Storm’s father was a lecturer at the local university and Storm had grown up in the Cotswolds and loved them very dearly.
It was October, one of Storm’s favourite months. Summer had lingered on this year, and the trees were just beginning to turn, the harvested fields a bright, lush green where the new growth showed through. Opening her window, Storm relaxed in her seat, enjoying the fresh air. It was colder today, with a sharp little breeze that heralded the end of their Indian Summer. She shivered suddenly with a presentiment that the wind of change was blowing into their lives in more ways than one. Jago Marsh! Why did it have to be him of all people?
‘Something wrong, Storm?’ David asked gently.
‘It’s just this business of Jago Marsh,’ she admitted uneasily. ‘I can’t help wishing you’d never met him…’
‘You’ll be more than a match for him,’ David assured her. ‘He isn’t used to women standing up to him.’
‘No, I suppose they’re more likely to fall prone at his feet,’ Storm retorted caustically.
‘Or on his bed,’ David said very dryly.
So she hadn’t been mistaken in her impression that Jago Marsh was a man who considered women were put on earth to serve only one purpose, Storm reflected wrathfully, turning up the volume of the radio as a news broadcast finished.
The next programme was a current affairs discussion, hosted by Mike Varnom, their other D.J. It was a relatively new departure for them and Storm was anxious to hear how it went.
The subject under discussion was the Common Market and the problems of exporting English lamb to France. The discussion, involving a couple of local farmers and their Euro M.P., should have been interesting, but somehow the speakers lacked conviction. Mike was constantly deferring to the politician, and Storm’s brow creased as she listened to the broadcast, the lovely countryside through which they were driving forgotten.
‘Oh no, Mike!’ she protested in dismay at one point, when he cut right across one of the farmer’s angry arguments.
‘The discussion was getting pretty heated, Storm,’ David pointed out mildly when she turned to him.
‘But that’s the whole point,’ she objected. ‘Involvement—that’s what we’re all about.’
David laughed.
‘Such a fierce little thing! I suppose if you were conducting the interview you’d be making mincemeat out of our Euro friend?’
‘Well, we are talking about the farmers’ livelihood. You know how high feeling is running locally against the Common Market subsidies.’
‘Umm—well, nothing can be achieved by attacking him broadside on, Storm. He isn’t a free agent, you know. Governments dictate policy…’
‘And governments are made up of men and women—like you or me. If we make our protests loud enough and long enough…’ she sighed in fond exasperation when David shook his head.
‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ he told her mildly. ‘Sit back and enjoy the scenery. I refuse to have my journey home ruined by a discussion on politics. I’ve got enough of that to contend with during the day.’
Storm was instantly remorseful, remembering his discussions with the Authority, but the ineffectualness of the programme lingered on, niggling, when she tried to relax her mind into other channels.
‘Shall I see you tonight?’ she asked David casually.
He shook his head.
“Fraid not. I’ve got to get some work done if I’m going to be ready to face the sort of inquisition Jago will have in mind. Why don’t you go out with Pete and that crowd?’ he asked her.
That was another good thing about David, Storm reflected. He wasn’t at all possessive. In a mature, well-balanced relationship there should be no need for jealousy.
The duck-egg blue sky was turning primrose when David stopped the car at the end of her parents’ drive. Leaning across her to open the door, he kissed her lightly.
Storm’s mother was in the garden. A placid, plump woman in her late fifties, she often found it difficult to understand how she had managed to produce such a turbulent firebrand.
Storm was the youngest of the family and the only girl. Both her brothers had left home several years earlier. John, the elder, was a mining engineer who lived and worked in Australia, making very infrequent trips home. Ian, three years older than Storm, was an oil technician who spent half his life commuting between various far-flung outposts of the world, looking for oil, and consequently he too was a rare visitor to the sprawling old house, nestling against the protective lee of the Cotswolds.
‘I thought I ought to cut the last of the roses before the frost gets them,’ Mrs Templeton said to Storm. ‘It makes the garden look so bare, though,’ she added, looking regretfully at her denuded bushes. ‘David drop you off?’
‘Mm. Let me carry those for you,’ Storm offered, relieving her mother of her secateurs and gloves. Although her parents were quite fond of David, Storm sensed that they did not entirely favour her relationship with him. They were such a pair of romantics, she thought affectionately, no doubt they would have preferred her to fall fathoms deep in love. Her mind shied away from the prospect, apprehension shivering through her, as she admitted that she was frightened of the commitment such a relationship would entail. Deep waters were not for her, she decided firmly as she followed her mother into the house.
‘Dinner won’t be long,’ Mrs Templeton warned as Storm headed for the stairs.
‘I’ll just have a quick shower, then,’ Storm replied.
Because of the amount of equipment crammed into their inadequate premises it was always uncomfortably warm in the studios and Storm liked to refresh herself with a shower before sitting down for her evening meal.
What would Jago Marsh make of their premises? she wondered, a sardonic smile touching her lips as she prepared for dinner. The offices themselves were bad enough, but worse by far was their outdated and hopelessly inefficient equipment. Their outside broadcast van had barely passed its M.O.T., in fact Pete had sworn that it was purely on account of Storm’s pleading violet eyes that it had scraped through at all, and so it was with all their gear. Mikes failed to operate, turntables refused to turn; splicers tangled the tapes, and it was always the exhausted staff who had to work on painstakingly righting the faults caused by unreliable equipment. Storm’s lip curled as she thought of Jago Marsh sitting up nursing a faulty transmitter. Well, he was in for a few shocks if he expected his existence to be cushioned with velvet once he joined Radio Wyechester, she thought with grim satisfaction.
Her parents were already seated when she entered the dining room. Storm’s father was a lecturer at the local university, a tall, still handsome man in his late fifties, with a pronounced sense of humour, and a comprehensive understanding of the young.
Although there were only the three of them left at home, Mrs Templeton insisted on a certain degree of formality for their evening meal, and although breakfast was normally a rushed affair with Storm swallowing a quick cup of coffee, standing up in the kitchen, and Mr Templeton munching toast, hidden behind his newspaper, dinner was always a leisurely meal, eaten with due regard for the digestion.
Her mother was an excellent cook, and since Storm had no need to worry about her weight, she tucked into her steak and kidney pie with every evidence of enjoyment.
Richard Templeton lectured in economics and had the dissecting mind of the intellectual. The Templeton household had never suffered from a lack of stimulating conversation, and the dinner table had been a favourite platform for the younger generation to launch its attacks on the elder throughout the boys’ and Storm’s adolescence. Nowadays there were no longer heated discussions about pop singers and curfews, nevertheless Storm enjoyed pitting her wits against her father’s razor-sharp mind—Templeton Père had the disquieting knack of sniffing out the weaker points of an argument, although what she lost in logic Storm more than made up for in vehemence.
‘Had a good day, Storm?’ Mrs Templeton enquired when she had served the apple pie. Storm had been somewhat subdued during the meal, and it struck her that she was looking far from happy.
‘Not really,’ Storm admitted. Her parents knew all about the problems suffered by the station, and both waited sympathetically to hear her news.
‘We’re being allowed to keep our licence,’ she told them, ‘but with certain provisos—one of which is Jago Marsh.’
‘The Jago Marsh?’ her father enquired with some interest. ‘Well, I don’t know why that should make you look so miserable. If you ask me he’s just what your outfit needs. Incredible, the progress he’s made during the last few years. There can’t be many people more experienced in the media today, and I’m sure he’ll be able to do a damned sight more for you than David’s ineffectual…’ He broke off as his wife kicked him warningly under the table.
‘I’m sorry, Storm,’ he apologised, ‘but although I like David, I don’t think he’s cut out for such a competitive business. I never have done…’
‘But you admire a man like Jago Marsh,’ Storm said bitterly, ‘a man who constantly features in the gossip columns—changes his girl-friends like other men change their shirts, is known to be completely ruthless and.…’
‘Most reprehensible,’ her father agreed, surveying her flushed cheeks with twinkling eyes. ‘What is it that you object to most, Storm? That he’s been appointed to try and make some order out of David’s chaos, or his romantic proclivities?’
‘I object to everything about him,’ Storm retorted, abandoning her attempts to reason logically. ‘You don’t know him like I do. He’s the original male chauvinist pig!’
Mr Templeton raised an eyebrow ‘You know him?’
‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ Storm said crossly. ‘I’ve read about him. I’ve heard him lecture, I’ve actually seen him say that women have no place in radio…’
‘Scarcely the basis on which to claim a knowledge of the man,’ her father pointed out. ‘Look, Storm, I can understand how you feel, in some ways, but I think you’re deliberately blinding yourself to the truth. Just because you personally don’t like the Jago Marsh you’ve created in your imagination it doesn’t mean that he won’t do a good job. How often have you come home bemoaning the fact that David has squashed one of your ideas?’
It was true.
‘That’s different,’ she protested.
‘Because you’re the one to do the criticising? Not good enough, my girl, pure feminine logic. Not good enough at all. As it happens I’ve heard Jago Marsh lecture too, and I got the impression of a man who knows where he’s going and when. Granted he won’t suffer fools gladly, but then why should he?’
‘If you two are going to engage in one of your arguments I’m off to the kitchen,’ Mrs Templeton announced. ‘Coffee, Storm?’
‘Yes, please. I’ll give you a hand with the trolley.’
‘You won’t escape that way, my girl,’ warned her father. ‘We’ll thrash this out later. Think a little, love. The man’s got a job to do, don’t go out of your way to make it any harder for him. He’s going to need all the help he can get.’
‘Not according to what one reads in the papers,’ Storm retorted. ‘To read them you’d think he was a one-man miracle worker!’
Over her downbent head her parents exchanged exasperatedly affectionate looks.
‘There’s a documentary on television I wouldn’t mind seeing tonight,’ Mr Templeton announced, changing the subject.
Storm followed her mother out into the kitchen.
‘Your father’s right, you know, dear,’ Mrs Templeton said gently as they washed up. ‘You mustn’t let loyalty to David blind you to his faults.’ She gave a faint sigh. ‘I know it’s none of my business, Storm, but somehow I can’t see David as the right man for you…’
‘Because he’s gentle and kind and doesn’t have sex on the brain?’ Storm retorted fiercely, causing her mother to frown anxiously.
‘I know you think you love him, Storm,’ she said quietly, ‘but if you did I should expect you to want him to have “sex on the brain”, as you put it. Things were different in my day, I know, and sex wasn’t discussed as openly as it is now, but there was never a single doubt in my mind that I wanted your father as my lover, very, very much indeed. I don’t think you can say the same about David.’
This unexpected frankness brought a touch of colour to Storm’s face.
‘Too much importance is placed on sex,’ she announced defensively. ‘It’s only one part of a relationship.’
‘The mere fact that you can tell me that, Storm,’ her mother replied softly, ‘just confirms what I’ve been saying. You can’t possibly love David as a woman should love a man.’
Her mother was hopelessly romantic, Storm thought as she finished her chores, but even so her words lingered, making it impossible for Storm to concentrate on the documentary. When it had finished Mrs Templeton announced suddenly,
‘I forget to tell you—the house down the road has been sold.’
‘Good lord!’ Mr Templeton exclaimed. ‘I never thought it would go so quickly. How much were they asking for it? Well over a hundred thousand, wasn’t it?’
The house in question was their nearest neighbour, the last word in modern design and yet built in such a fashion that it blended perfectly into its rural surroundings. Much use had been made of huge expanses of tinted glass and natural wood. The house had extensive grounds and overlooked the wooded copse that lay between Storm’s parents’ house and it, and Mrs Templeton, who had been inside it, said that it was as beautiful inside as it was out.
‘Going out with David tonight?’ Mrs Templeton asked Storm a little later.
‘No. He’s got some work to do, and so have I.’
‘Making sure the new boss doesn’t catch you off guard?’ grinned her father.
Storm elected to take refuge from his teasing in a disdainful demeanour.
‘Certainly not. I couldn’t care less what Jago Marsh thinks of me!’
But she could not get away from the fact that hateful though he might be, Jago Marsh was going to be in a position of authority over her, and worse still, capable to taking from her a job which she thoroughly enjoyed and had worked hard for.
It was an unpalatable thought to take to bed, and she was unusually quiet when she said her goodnights. Upstairs in her room she dawdled over her preparations for bed, stopping to lean her elbows on her casement window and stare out at the night sky.
Why of all people had David had to confide in Jago Marsh? her rebellious heart demanded, her inner eye seeing him as he had appeared to her during his lecture. He had been wearing a tailored suit, his dark hair neatly brushed, outwardly a conformist adhering to the rules of society, but his face had been that of a man who admits to no rules, except his own; a man who would either lead the pack or turn his back on it; a man who in her heart of hearts she acknowledged was dangerous.
She vowed there and then that when the confrontation came, he would not find her unprepared.
CHAPTER TWO (#ufcae9997-ffcd-5e91-b692-64c6703096b4)
IT was to come far sooner than she had expected.
The day had not got off to an auspicious start. Far from it, Storm thought as she tussled with a recalcitrant zip. She had overslept, and the fact that she had an important appointment with the managing director of a Gloucester-based employment agency whom she had hoped to persuade to make use of the station’s advertising facilities made her all fingers and thumbs as she pulled on a pale grey skirt and a toning lavender blouse.
The blouse was startlingly effective against her hair, reflecting the colour of her eyes as she blended subtly shaded mauve eyeshadow over her eyelids, adding the merest touch of mascara and kohl pencil, before snatching up her fox jacket—a combined twenty-first birthday present from her parents and brothers. At least the fur gave her a touch of elegance, she thought ruefully as she applied damson lip gloss—something she considered herself badly in need of. She studied herself in the mirror, frowning a little. Thank goodness for high heels! Five foot two did not make for the soignée model girl elegance she envied so much. Her lack of inches was a constant source of irritation to her. ‘Titch’ and ‘Pint Size’ were only two of the derogatory names used by her brothers during their adolescence, and to add insult to injury they both took after their father, easily topping six foot!
Conditioned to her spectacular colouring, Storm was oblivious to the vivid effect of her russet curls against the creamy warmth of her skin, or the generously full curve of her mouth beneath its covering of lip gloss. Wrinkling her nose, she picked up her bag and fled. She was late enough already without wasting more time staring at her own reflection.
Breakfast was a hurried affair, with her mother scolding her affectionately as she swallowed her coffee and refused anything more substantial. Mrs Templeton was lending Storm her Mini and, as always when time was short, this temperamental dowager refused to start first time.
‘She won’t start if you speak to her like that,’ Mrs Templeton warned Storm who was muttering curses over the Mini’s obstinacy. ‘She’s an old lady and it’s a cold morning.’
Storm grinned. Her mother’s habit of treating her elderly car as an eccentric member of the family was a standing joke.
‘Don’t worry,’ she promised, ‘I’ll pay due consideration to her advancing years and uncertain health!’
Very little traffic used the winding road to Gloucester. The early morning mist had dispersed, leaving only the odd patch here and there in low-lying hollows. The glinting autumn sun sparkled on frost-rimed hedges, and Storm hummed happily as she drove along.
Later she admitted to herself that she had been guilty of letting her mind wander, and perhaps even taking up more than her allotted half share of the road, but that was later. Her first instinctive reaction when she saw the powerful green car leaping towards her devouring the slender distance that separated them was one of furious resentment that its driver should behave with such a lack of regard for any other road users.
With almost unbelievable speed the other car swerved away, narrowly missing her, and as Storm glared revengefully at its occupants, she realised that the man seated in the passenger seat was Neil Philips, the local estate agent. Which meant that in all probability the driver was none other than their new neighbour. Scarcely a good omen for their future relationship Storm admitted as she gave the Mini’s steering wheel a reassuring pat. Really, she was getting quite as bad as her mother! A car was a car was a car! Unless, of course, it happened to be an expensive luxury toy designed for men rich and vain enough to own such objects, she reflected, remembering the sleek lines of the green monster. She tossed her head. Arrogant brute, to sound his horn like that! He had been as much in the wrong as she was!
But she had not been giving her driving the concentration she ought to have done, she admitted. Her mind had been on Jago Marsh and the difference his coming was bound to make to her life. David had not said when they might expect him, but surely it would take some time for him to tie up his business affairs in London; that should give them a little breathing space.
Gloucester was busy. It took her ten minutes to find a parking space and another five to check her hair and make-up before sliding out of the car and hurrying towards the Top Girl agency. That was one thing, she thought, chuckling to herself, at least being small meant that one could get out of a Mini without tying oneself in knots.
She made an attractive picture, her skirt toning perfectly with the fox jacket, her hair a banner of rich colour against the pale subtlety of the fur, her eyes shining with anticipation. Several passers-by stopped to give her a second look, but Storm barely noticed.
The clock was just striking ten when she pushed open the plate-glass door of the modern office block which housed the agency’s offices. Disappointment awaited her. The man she had come to see had been called to an urgent meeting in Banbury, and had had to cancel their appointment.
His secretary was sympathetic, offering Storm a cup of coffee as she explained that she had tried to reach her at Radio Wyechester without success.
Storm fought to quell her disappointment. She had worked hard to secure this appointment and had come prepared with various suggestions for alternative jingles and themes that could be used to promote the agency. She suspected that the head of the agency had only agreed to their appointment because she had pressed him, and had in fact been relieved to find an excuse to cancel. However, she had learned that in advertising confidence was everything, so she composed her features into a relaxed smile, and got out her diary to make a fresh appointment.
A whole morning wasted, she thought miserably an hour later as she parked her car in the supermarket car-park beneath their offices. As usual it was crowded, and because Sam Townley refused to give them permanent car-parking spaces she had to circle it a couple of times before she could find a gap. Feeling unusually hot and bothered, she headed for the studio.
Sue stopped her in the outer office.
‘Message for you.’ She pulled a face. ‘Your friend Mr Beton’s been on. He says his ad was cut short again last night, and that it was indistinct. He wants to know if you’re going to cut his bill to match.’
‘Damn!’ Storm swore feelingly. ‘I’ll give him a ring later on. Anything else?’
Sue shook her head. ‘No other messages, but David wants to see you. He said to go to his office the moment you arrived. Pete and the others are already there.’
‘Okay. I’ll be right there,’ Storm told her. David must have decided to hold a meeting following on from his visit to London. Perhaps he wanted to plan a campaign to show Jago Marsh that they weren’t a total write-off. She certainly hoped so.
When she slipped into David’s office five minutes later, there was an atmosphere of tense expectancy in the air. Pete, who was standing nearest to the door, draped an arm across her shoulder, pulling her against him.
David’s small office was cramped at the best of times, but with three of their four technicians, Pete, David himself and Storm in it, there was barely room to move without breathing in, and in vain Storm craned her neck to see over the taller male heads.
‘What’s up? Frightened you’ll miss something my, lovely?’ Pete teased, mocking her lack of inches.
It wasn’t often that Storm lost her cool with her colleagues, but the irritations of the morning had mounted up and her temper was at boiling point. Now it spilled over, making her snap back angrily,
‘What’s to miss, for heaven’s sake? I could do without another eulogy on the marvels performed by Mr Magnificent Marsh. I know David’s desperately trying to sweeten the pill and all credit to him, but as far as I’m concerned Jago Marsh is still poison!’
There was an uncomfortable silence and Storm realised that her voice had carried farther than she had intended. She was just about to mumble an apology for interrupting the meeting when a voice far cooler and crisper than David’s mild tones drawled sapiently from the other side of the room,
‘Ah, I see our missing Advertising Controller has condescended to join us. Perhaps if you took the trouble to listen occasionally, Miss Templeton, instead of commandeering the conversation you might learn something. Marvels, as you call them, aren’t achieved simply by waving a magic wand. They take time and hard work—something that appears to be conspicuously lacking in this set-up.’
Her cheeks burned.
‘Naughty, naughty!’ Pete whispered in her ear. ‘You’ve pulled the tiger’s tail with a vengeance, my lovely. I do believe he’s about to make an example of you!’
As though by magic a path had cleared to David’s desk, and for the first time Storm had an uninterrupted view of the man lounging there.
She recognised him immediately. There was no mistaking that tall well-muscled body encased in an immaculate charcoal-grey suit, nor the hard-boned masculine profile, icy-grey eyes sweeping her from head to foot.
Jago Marsh! Here already! She could hardly believe it.
He flicked back a crisp white shirt cuff to glance meaningfully at the gold Rollex watch strapped to his wrist, and Storm stifled her resentment. If he was trying to imply that she was late for work, he would soon learn different. He came out from behind his desk, the suggestion of restrained power very evident in his lithe movements, his black hair slightly longer than she had remembered, brushing the collar of his jacket. He gestured to the chair in front of David’s desk and said in a deceptively calm voice:
‘Sit down, Storm.’
Every instinct warned her that here was a man who was dangerous. She tried to keep calm, forcing herself to meet his eyes. They were dark grey and right at this moment looked uncommonly like the North Sea when an east wind was blowing over it. She was half way towards the chair before she realised what she was doing, and straightened abruptly. ‘I’ll stand, thank you,’ she said clearly. ‘I’m no different from the other members of this team. Just because I’m female I don’t expect to be treated any differently.’
And he could take that whichever way he chose, she decided triumphantly.
For several unnerving seconds she was forced to endure the diamond brilliance of ice-cold scrutiny and then he was smiling derisively.
‘Well, you’re right about one thing,’ he drawled coolly. ‘You’re feminine all right.’
To her chagrin the others, including David, laughed. Her whole body was quivering with indignation, but even so she was completely unprepared for the hard hands descending on her shoulders as she was propelled backwards and forced gently into the chair.
‘There,’ Jago said gently. ‘Now you can both see and hear what’s going on and everyone else can see over you.’
Storm’s cheeks burned anew. He made her sound like a spoiled, fractious child! Beneath her blouse her skin felt as though it were on fire where he had touched her, her emotions in chaos.
‘Now,’ he drawled, ‘I’ll continue, and if it makes it any easier for you, I promise you I’m not here to dwell on past glories—mine or anyone else’s.’ His eyes swept the room. ‘There’s one thing for sure, if we were relying on relating the successes of your venture we’d have precious little to talk about.’
Here it came, Storm thought numbly. How he must be gloating! Barging in among them, wearing clothes more suitable to a boardroom than David’s shabby office. All that she was feeling showed in her eyes, as she lifted them to his unreadable face. He returned the look, his eyes dropping to the soft curves so lightly masked by the lavender silk blouse. Without a trace of embarrassment they lingered for a while before making a full and appreciative study of the rest of her body, and when his eyes eventually returned to her face, they were no longer cold but warmly sensual with a meaning that was distinctly plain.
Storm went hot and then cold, trying to appear unaffected by the blatantly sensual inspection. No one had ever looked at her like that before, and she shivered a little without knowing why.
‘Well, Storm?’ he queried in the silence which followed. ‘You seemed to have plenty to say for yourself earlier on, suppose you tell me why after nearly twelve months’ operation you’re still floundering about like a bunch of amateurs, playing at operating a radio station.’
That disturbing sexually aware look might never have been, his voice and eyes probed mercilessly, driving her to murmur defiantly under her breath,
‘Perhaps it’s because we can’t all aspire to the dizzy heights surmounted by the Jago Marshes of this world.’
She hadn’t intended him to hear, but when his mouth tightened comprehendingly she knew that he had.
She quaked inwardly as he advanced on her with a lithe cat-like tread, but she had come too far to back down now. She was not susceptible enough to be reduced to jelly by a mere look, she reminded herself, her chin lifting proudly as she waited for his acid denunciation.
However, it seemed he had more control of his temper than she had of hers, for he merely looked at her rather thoughtfully before commenting softly,
‘Since you appear so keen on airing you views, Storm, perhaps you’d care to favour us with an explanation of these advertising figures.’
She’d been wrong about his temper, Storm thought, as he thrust a file under her nose. It was there all right; smouldering in the look he gave her, reminding her of what he thought of women in the media. An unpleasant thought struck her. Perhaps he was deliberately trying to goad her into handing in her notice. Well, she wouldn’t fall for that one, she decided grimly as he dropped the file on David’s desk, his eyes never leaving her face.
‘Barely a thousand pounds a week in revenues. In London we turn over fifty thousand in exactly the same time span, and that’s allowing only six minutes of commercials to the hour. It turns the listeners off if they’re swamped by commercial breaks. Those aren’t what they tune in for, but I’m sure all this is merely coals to Newcastle as far as you’re concerned, Storm. What,’ his eyebrows arched in unconcealed contempt, ‘nothing to say for yourself?’
As she fought for self-control she heard David interrupt placatingly, ‘Storm is highly qualified and very experienced, Jago. She was with an excellent advertising agency in Oxford before she joined us…’
‘Really?’ The cool reply came dubiously, the hard eyes probing. ‘She looks very young to be… experienced.’
Damn the man! Storm thought savagely, reacting instinctively to the deliberate taunt.
‘I know you don’t approve of women in the media, Mr Marsh,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘And please don’t bother to deny it, I’ve heard you lecture on the subject. But there’s such a thing as equal opportunities these days, and I intend to prove that I can do this job as well as any man. Now, about these figures.’ Not daring to look at him or to allow herself to dwell on the silence which had fallen on the room, she picked up the advertising file, shuffling the papers to conceal how nervous she felt. Reaction was beginning to set in, but she could not back down now. She had taken her stand and must prove to Jago Marsh once and for all that while she might be a woman as far as her work went she expected to be treated in the same manner as he would treat a male colleague, and not be subjected to the covert sexual warfare he had been indulging in before.
‘Firstly,’ she told him, striving to keep her voice even and calm, ‘Wyechester isn’t London and people—life moves at a much slower pace. It takes time to convince local businessmen to make use of our services and…’
‘I’ll say it does!’ Jago cut in contemptuously, without letting her finish. ‘But how much time do you need? Time is something you’re running out of here,’ he reminded them curtly. ‘That’s why I’m here, to try and put things right before the I.B.A. are left with no option but to blow the whistle on the entire venture.’
‘How vey generous of you!’ Storm interrupted sarcastically, before she could stop herself.
Jago inclined his head, and the look he gave her held an implicit promise of retribution to come. Storm couldn’t help herself, her eyes dropped, her cheeks flushing with mortification. In the silence that followed it would have been possible to hear the proverbial pin drop.
‘I was warned that you were something of a firebrand, Storm,’ Jago said smoothly. ‘Well, let me tell you here and now if there are going to be any fireworks in this outfit, they’re going to originate from me, and they’re more likely to take the form of a rocket under your backside unless I see a drastic improvement.’
‘Doesn’t mince matters, does he?’ Pete murmured with an appreciative chuckle, but Storm did not bother to reply. All her attention was focused on the man facing her across David’s desk.
‘Is that understood?’ Jago asked. ‘Good.’ The cool grey eyes summed up their reaction, resting momentarily on Storm’s openly rebellious face. ‘A word of warning, Storm, before you get any idiotic ideas into your head—I have ways of turning firecrackers into damp squibs.’
‘I’ll just bet you have!’ Pete grinned appreciatively, while to Storm’s fury all the men with the exception of David laughed out loud. Closing ranks against the female in their midst, she thought resentfully, only her clenched hands betraying her feelings as she tried to appear both cool and unmoved.
‘I thought you’d come here to show us how to run the station at a profit, not reform my character,’ she riposted lightly, when the laughter had died down. Let him see how it felt to be the object of everyone’s amusement!
He was watching her with a thoughtful narrowed gaze that made her heart thump uncomfortably and warned her that she had gone too far, then his expression lightened, amusement glinting in his eyes.
‘I’m perfectly capable of doing both,’ he assured her smoothly, an inflection in the words that sent a frisson of awareness shivering over her skin.
The others laughed again, but in Storm’s mind there was no doubt that the gage had been most definitely thrown down. But did she dare to pick it up? Some instinct more deep-rooted than any ordinary emotion warned her that to do so would be dangerous. And yet what had she to lose? Her job and her pride were surely more important to her than that.
‘In fact,’ Jago mused, his eyes on her slender curves, ‘I’m not sure if I won’t anyway. Taming shrews can sometimes have the most unexpected fringe benefits.’
This time there was no laughter. She caught David’s eye in a mute plea for help, willing him to tell Jago Marsh that if there was any taming to be done he was the one who would be doing it. But of course David would do no such thing, she acknowledged, and wasn’t it precisely because he would not that she loved him?
‘Perhaps if you could tear yourself away from your daydream, Storm?’
Engrossed in her thoughts, she had missed part of the conversation. The others were all looking expectantly at her, and she ran her tongue nervously round her dry lips.
‘Well?’ Jago prompted softly. ‘We’re all waiting. Perhaps you could enlighten us as to exactly why Radio Wyechester is such a resounding failure?’
How could David endure to stand there and listen to him? Storm wondered resentfully.
‘I agree that we have a long way to go,’ she began, intending to mention the decrepit state of some of their equipment, but Jago stopped her, saying dryly.
‘I’m glad we agree on something, but you certainly believe in the understatement, don’t you? For “a long way”, I would substitute “all the way”. You haven’t even taken the first step in the right direction.’
‘But no doubt we will, under your capable tutelage!’ Storm shot back resentfully.
Jago inclined his head briefly as though in assent. His eyes bored into her.
‘It’s to be hoped so,’ he agreed. ‘Now, if I can have your attention for a moment, all of you. The first thing we need to know before you can become a success is why you’re at present a failure.’ He looked round the room, ignoring Storm’s rebellious disdain.
He certainly had a way of delivering a snub that was all his own, she had to acknowledge seconds later when his eyes returned to her flushed face, and lingered, looking straight through her, while the others shuffled uncomfortably and looked at one another for support. Why didn’t David say something? Storm wondered helplessly. Surely he had formulated some defence for the attack which he must have known would be coming? Surely he wasn’t going to let Jago Marsh sweep in here and simply take over? But it certainly looked that way.
‘I’m going to take five days to look round and see what’s to be done and then I shall hold a round-the-table meeting to get your views,’ Jago told them crisply when no one spoke.
‘Five days—is that all?’ Storm muttered under her breath, willing David to defend their venture and himself. ‘Even God took six!’
‘You can go now,’ Jago told them coolly, gathering up his papers. ‘All except you, Storm. I have something to say to you—in private,’ he added, as David showed signs of lingering.
Storm held her breath waiting for David to tell Jago that anything he had to say to her in private could be said to him, but to her dismay he merely gave her a sympathetic smile before following the others out of the office.
‘Well now,’ said Jago when they were alone, ‘that’s quite an act you’ve got together there. Want to tell me why?’
‘What did you expect?’ Storm asked dangerously. ‘I know your views on women in the media, and I hate the way you’re pushing David about. Well, as far as I’m concerned, he’s still Controller here and I take my orders from him.’
‘I’ll bet,’ Jago drawled cynically. ‘The day David Winters can bring himself to give an order—that I’ve got to see!’
‘Don’t you criticise David! He’s worth ten of you.’
‘Not so far as the I.B.A. are concerned.’
Impossible to deny the truth of that statement, much as she would have wanted to. Angry tears weren’t far away, and Storm blinked them back.
‘All this concern, and for old David! I’m impressed.’ The derogatory tones could not be ignored, and drawing herself up to her full height, Storm choked back:
‘Why shouldn’t I be concerned for him? I happen to be in love with him!’
She must surely have imagined the incredulity in those narrowed grey eyes, she told herself seconds later, when it had been banished to be replaced with a satirical smile. ‘Are you indeed? You do surprise me.’
His tone caught her off guard, making her say defensively, ‘You find it hard to believe that David could love me?’
‘Not particularly that he could,’ came the ambiguous response, ‘but that he has. He certainly hasn’t taught you to purr instead of scratch,’ he added contemplatively, his eyes assessing her stiffening body.
‘So you’re in love with David. Do you sleep together?’
The question threw her, making her colour vividly. ‘What does it matter if we do?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Our relationship doesn’t affect our work, if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘I can see that. He’d have let me tear you to pieces back there, wouldn’t he? He’s not the man for you, Storm,’ Jago said softly. ‘He’ll never tame you…’
’I don’t want to be tamed!’ Storm told him defiantly, her eyes widening as she realised what she had betrayed.
Jago watched her. ‘So that’s it. You don’t love David,’ he told her positively, ‘you’re using him as a means of keeping your feelings in cold storage. Well, you can’t do that for ever.’
‘Who’s going to stop me?’ Storm responded angrily, wondering how she had allowed herself to be manoeuvred on to this dangerous subject. ‘You?’
There was a tiny pause when she wished as she had never wished for anything in her life before that she had not added that foolish, challenging word, and then, observing the satisfaction gleaming in the grey eyes watching her, knew that she had been deliberately goaded into it.
‘Why not?’ Jago drawled smoothly, his fingers reaching out to brush the curls back from her cheek. Even that light touch was enough to make Storm back nervously away from him, her defences alerted to the danger he represented.
‘Don’t touch me!’ she choked fiercely, but he merely laughed, and moved towards her, his eyes lingering on the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath their thin covering of silk.
‘If you really are in love with David, my touch won’t have any power to affect you, will it?’ he murmured logically, his eyes almost mesmerising her. ‘But you don’t love him, do you, Storm?’
‘Of course I do!’ she protested. ‘Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you leave me alone?’
‘Why? Because you’re an extremely desirable young woman, with a body that excites me. I want you, Storm,’ he told her suddenly, shocking her with the baldness of his statement. ‘And what I want, I get.’
‘Well, I don’t want you!’ Storm protested vehemently, emotion darkening her eyes to the colour of pansies. ‘I love David.’
Jago looked at her for a moment and in his eyes she saw the determination of a man used to getting his own way. It took all the self control she had at her command to hold that gaze.
‘You’re a liar,’ he told her, ‘on both counts, and before too long I’ll prove it to you.’
‘I’m going straight to David to tell him what you’ve just said!’ Storm told him furiously, but the steely grip of his fingers on her arms sliced off her protests, his eyes dark as they bored into hers.
‘You do just that,’ he told her softly, ‘and you’ll find out exactly how little your precious David cares about you. Once he knows I want you he’ll drop you like a hot potato. All David Winters wants from life is peace and quiet, and if he thinks letting me have you will get it for him, he will wrap you up himself in pretty paper and hand you over tied up in pink ribbons.’
‘I hate you!’ Storm breathed, trembling with indignation. ‘David would never…’
Her protest was silenced as hard male lips claimed her mouth her body drawn against masculine contours and she was forced to endure an intimacy of touch she had always previously avoided. She stiffened within the embrace, her mouth closing stubbornly as she refused to respond.
Jago laughed softly.
‘You’ve got a lot to learn, Storm Templeton,’ he told her mockingly, ‘but I shall enjoy teaching you.’
‘I loathe you!’ Storm spat at him, pulling herself out of his arms.
He made no attempt to follow her, his expression thoughtfully assessing as it lingered on her dilated eyes.
‘You fear me,’ he corrected, startling her with his insight. ‘And you fear the emotions I might arouse, isn’t that more to the point? Is that why you chose David? Because he was nice and safe?’
‘You’ve no right to question me about my private life,’ Storm protested, fumbling with the door. ‘And whatever you may choose to think of your prowess, you do nothing for me.’
‘But I shall.’ Jago promised softly as she fled. ‘Believe me, Storm, I shall.’
Her first instinct was to go straight to David and tell him what had happened, but the tiny kernel of truth in Jago’s statement would not be denied. David hated trouble of any kind, and while she did not believe for one moment that he would ‘hand her over’ as Jago had suggested—she was not David’s possession, after all—she knew that he would probably try and reason her out of her present frame of mind, explaining away Jago’s comments as a form of teasing, or worse still a product of her imagination. She had always approved of his lack of jealousy, she reminded herself, so it was hardly fair now to wish that he might tell Jago in no uncertain terms that she belonged to him. Anyway, she had no need of David to defend her. Surely she was perfectly capable of telling Jago herself that he did not interest her? But somehow she had an idea that he would take ‘no’ for an answer.
She could still not quite believe that it had all happened. One moment they had been discussing work and the next… But no, that was not true, she acknowledged. From the moment he had looked at her in that disturbingly sensual manner she had known that he desired her. It had happened before and she had not felt the tremulous fear she felt now. But Jago Marsh was like no man she had ever known before, she acknowledged, and something deep inside her reacted to him whether she liked it or not. He aroused in her a primitive fear she had never known before, panicking her into all manner of foolish reactions. She would just have to strive to appear cool and in control of the situation, she told herself. Men like Jago Marsh did not normally have to work very hard to secure their sexual pleasures and doubtless once he realised that she did not intend to play ball, he would drop her and pursue someone else.
The shock of seeing him there in David’s office this morning had made her more vulnerable than she would normally be, but from now on she would be on her guard. He might desire her, but so what? an inner voice asked sardonically. She herself had said that he changed his girl-friends as frequently as he changed his shirts, and no doubt the sophisticated crowd he moved in thought no more of going to bed with someone than they did of shaking hands—possibly even less.
He was still on her mind later in the day when she left the studio, and she grimaced a little at her own stupidity in allowing him to monopolise so much of her attention as she unlocked the Mini. If Jago Marsh thought she was going to be another easy conquest, he had better think again. She loved David and would continue to do so. But did David love her? There had never been any mention of an engagement or marriage. David had never even held her in the way that Jago had this morning, making her intensely aware of the fact that he was entirely male and doing it quite deliberately. She had never felt the faintest sexual stirring in his arms, but then wasn’t that what she had wanted? So why did she suddenly long for David to sweep her off her feet and make love to her until she was irrevocably committed, and safely beyond the reach of Jago Marsh?
CHAPTER THREE (#ufcae9997-ffcd-5e91-b692-64c6703096b4)
FIVE days Jago had given them, and no five days had ever passed so swiftly. In fact they were so hectic that Storm barely saw David, except to exchange a few brief words of conversation in passing. She had noticed, though, that he seemed very subdued and she was glad she had not burdened him with her own problems. His stoop seemed to have become even more pronounced, but instead of filling her with compassion, his defeatist attitude made her long to tell him to fight back, to show Jago that he was equally capable of running the station.
As far as the others were concerned David might as well have ceased to exist as Controller. Jago had been accepted with a wholehearted approval that grated on Storm’s raw nerves. She was beginning to feel like the last surviving victim of a catalyst. Everyone apart from herself seemed to have succumbed to Jago’s cool charm, and even David deferred to him quite willingly. Sue and Janet, the two office girls, were already mooning over their new boss’s good looks; Pete mentioned his name with every other breath, and talked unceasingly of his hopes that their connections with Jago might lead to a D.J. spot for him in London, and even the technicians were full of praise for the man whom Storm still thought of as an intruder.
Never had she been so thankful to see a Friday. Half-way through the morning the Beton tape had jammed, and the result was that Storm was trying to placate a furious Mr Beton with the promise that his ad would get double time in the afternoon.
She was with the technicians waiting for their verdict on how long it would be before the tape could be run when Ken, the younger of the two, piped up admiringly:
‘You should have seen Jago this morning, Storm. We were having problems with the stereo output, and he located the fault in about ten seconds flat. Said it was easy after nearly fifteen years in the business. You’d never get David doing anything like that.’
Stung into David’s defence, Storm said sarcastically: ‘Perhaps I ought to take this tape to him, then. Did no one ever warn you about worshipping graven images, young Ken?’
‘And did no one ever warn you about making snide remarks where they could be overheard?’ Jago drawled from her shoulder.
He had come in so quietly that Storm had not heard him. She spun round, her body reacting instantly to his presence, alarm feathering along her nerves. She had been working too hard, she told herself as she felt an inner tremor; that was all. Her nerves were on edge from the strain she had been under.
Jago ignored her, crouching down beside Ken, murmuring a few words of advice while Storm waited for her tape.
‘What’s the matter?’ Jago drawled, when Ken handed it to her. ‘Spoiled the nice picture you had built up of me, have I? What did you think I was? I was mending tapes like these when you were still in your pram. You complain about the equipment you have here. You should have seen the stuff we had on board the old Cynthia. And by the way,’ he added, his eyes merciless as they scrutinised her pale face, ‘the next time you feel like criticising me, have the guts to do it to my face.’
He was gone before she could retort, leaving her trembling with nervous reaction and other emotions she found it impossible to name.
She mustn’t let him get to her like this, she told herself as she took the tape back to the studio. She must never forget that they were engaged upon a war and the moment she let him overpower her she would have lost it.
She was just about to telephone Mr Beton when Sue came in.
‘Jago wants to see you,’ she said breathlessly, her expression envious.
He had taken over David’s office—just as he had taken over David’s job, Storm thought rebelliously as she knocked on the door and walked in.
Jago was studying some papers, which he dropped on to the desk, reminding her that he wanted to see her to go over the advertising figures first thing on Tuesday morning. Was he actually giving her time to prepare her case? she asked herself acidly. Munificence indeed!
‘Something wrong?’ he asked coolly, leaning back in his chair—David’s chair really, Storm thought angrily. When she didn’t answer an understanding smile quivered across his mouth.
‘Ah yes, I see what it is,’ he drawled. ‘Poor Storm, what did you expect? A torrid love scene in the office? Been nerving yourself to fight me off, have you?’
He was on his feet, standing behind her, so close that Storm could feel his warm breath stirring her hair. Just being in the same room with him seemed to drain her energy and yet fill her with a claustrophobic fear at the same time. He hadn’t made the slightest move to touch her in any way, but she was more intensely aware of his maleness than she would have been had she felt his hard body pressed against her own.
‘I never mix business with pleasure,’ Storm heard him say. ‘Don’t worry, though. When I’m ready to make love to you, you’ll know all about it. Have dinner with me tonight?’ he asked unexpectedly. He saw the warning flash in her eyes and laughed. ‘David is going to Oxford—on business,’ he told her softly, ‘so don’t go running to him for help.’
’I wouldn’t have dinner with you if… if I were starving!’ she managed disdainfully as she thrust open the door. Surely he must know how much she disliked him? But then of course feeling would never matter to Jago Marsh. She was simply an appetite he wanted to appease, and once he had done so, she would be tossed on one side—discarded. But she would make sure that would never happen!
Back in her own cubbyhole of an office she buzzed through to Sue and asked if she knew where David was.
‘Gone out,’ came the other girl’s cheerful response. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’
There hadn’t been time to tell one another very much lately, Storm thought uneasily. She and David normally went out together on Friday evenings and he had said nothing to her about visiting Oxford, although she knew he had friends living there from his university days.
‘Doing anything tonight?’
She hadn’t heard Pete come in, and he perched on the edge of her desk grinning down at her.
‘And don’t tell me you’re going out with old David, because I know you’re not. Told me himself that he was going away for the weekend.’
It seemed that David had told everyone but her, Storm thought a little resentfully. Her phone rang and she moved to pick it up, covering the receiver as Pete coaxed, ‘Come on, we’ll go and have a drink with the crowd. Strictly platonic, I promise.’
She didn’t feel much like an evening at home, she admitted, acknowledging the growing restlessness she had experienced over the last few days. An evening out would do her good.
‘Pick me up at nine,’ she mouthed to Pete, who nodded and gave her a mock salute as he left.
Later in the afternoon she felt so tired that she half regretted her decision to go out, but it was too late to change her mind. Her father had offered to collect her from work, and he was waiting in the car-park when Storm got outside.
The fields were a patchwork of varying greens and golds, broken by the odd spot of dark brown where the earth had been turned for a winter crop, cobbled together with the neat grey lines of the dry-stone walls. Storm lay back in her seat and closed her eyes.
‘You’re quiet.’ Mr Templeton shot her an amused look. ‘Finding this new boss harder to handle than old David?’
‘David isn’t old!’ Storm expostulated, but Mr Templeton just grinned.
‘Some people are born old, my girl, and some are always young. Your David is one of the former, and you, my love, are most definitely one of the latter.’
Irreverently Storm wondered into which category Jago Marsh fell, squashing the admission that he was a man it would be virtually impossible to define or put into a precast mould, and then dismissed him firmly from her mind and gave her attention exclusively to her father.
‘Going out with David tonight?’ he asked quizzically.
Storm shook her head. ‘He’s in Oxford.’ No need to tell her father that David had neglected to inform her of his intentions. ‘I’m going out with Pete and the usual crowd, just for a drink.’
‘Do you good,’ Mr Templeton approved. ‘You’ve been rather preoccupied lately. Care to talk about it?’
‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ Storm replied rather huskily. That was the beauty of her parents, although they never interfered they were always ready and willing to listen to her problems and suggest a solution.
She smiled a little wryly at her father’s reaction to the information that Jago Marsh wanted to make her his mistress. If one could apply such an outdated word to the undoubtedly ephemeral relationship he had in mind. Knowing her father’s love of logic he would probably have some perfectly rational explanation for the other man’s behaviour, Storm reflected with a sigh. This was one problem she could not share with her parents, although she admitted that perhaps some self-analysis was called for.
Her mind shied away from the admission. Just because Jago Marsh made her feel nervous… threatened. It was a perfectly natural reaction and one that any girl would have felt faced with his coolly stated intentions. She had no desire to become involved in any purely sexual relationship. Mutual respect; shared interests—these were the things on which durable relationships were formed.
She heard the familiar toot of Pete’s car horn while she was putting on her make-up. The crowd Pete mixed with were essentially a casual lot, so Storm had donned tight-fitting black cord jeans, topped with a silky white blouse with a yoke that emphasised the fullness of her breasts and full sleeves gathered into a tight cuff. A brief matching cord waistcoat drew attention to her slim waist, giving her an almost mediaeval air, and as she applied her eyeshadow with a practised hand she heard Pete cheerfully returning her mother’s greeting.
Peach blusher highlighted her cheekbones, and a shiny lip gloss emphasised the sensuous curve of her mouth. She brushed her hair quickly, then slipped on her knee-length suede boots, zipping them closed.
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