Lee Wilkinson - Mistress Against Her Will

He leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Now don’t forget how much this means to me. Good luck.’

Feeling slightly sick, her stomach full of butterflies, Gail unfastened her seat belt, opened the door and got out.

Already the air was warm and the summer sunshine bright, glancing off the bodywork of passing cars and gleaming on pavements still damp from the early morning shower.

As the Jaguar drew away, she lifted her hand but, a slight frown on his good-looking face, Paul was staring straight ahead.

Opening her bag, she took out the pair of cheap low-strength reading glasses she’d bought in the local chemist and put them on.

Then bracing herself, she walked the short distance to the Clairmont Building, with its handsome Georgian façade, and through the imposing main entrance.

The clock above the reception desk showed it was ten minutes to eight, so she was in good time.

As, her heart beating fast and her legs feeling oddly shaky, she started to cross the marble-floored lobby, she caught sight of herself reflected in one of the long gilt-framed mirrors.

Wearing a smart charcoal-grey suit and an off-white blouse, her small heart-shaped face outwardly calm, her dark hair in a smooth coil, she looked every inch the cool, efficient businesswoman.

No one would have guessed at her inner turmoil as she approached the desk and gave her name to the pretty blonde receptionist.

‘You’ll find the office complex on the second floor, Miss North. If you would like to go straight up, Mrs Bancroft, Mr Lorenson’s secretary, will be waiting for you.’

When Gail stepped out of the lift on the second floor she was greeted by an attractive middle-aged woman with bobbed iron-grey hair.

‘I’m Claire Bancroft. If you’d like to follow me, Miss North…’

As Mrs Bancroft led the way along the carpeted corridor to another lift, she remarked, ‘Mr Lorenson is in his apartment this morning. He likes to keep the interviews he conducts informal.’

Entering a four digit code into a small panel, she added, ‘This is his private lift.’

The lift took them up to the top floor, where they emerged into a quietly luxurious hallway. Opening the nearest door, Mrs Bancroft said, ‘Please come in, Miss North…’

Gail found herself ushered into a large sunny room with an off-white and mint-green decor and an ornate plaster ceiling. To the left, a door into a neighbouring room stood slightly ajar.

Between two sets of windows was a desk with an impressive array of the latest electronic equipment and a black leather chair.

Apart from the businesslike desk, the room was furnished as a lounge.

‘Perhaps you’d like to take a seat?’ Mrs Bancroft suggested with a friendly smile. ‘Mr Lorenson knows you’re here. He’ll be with you in a minute or so.’

When the other woman had gone, too nervous to sit and cravenly grateful for even this short breathing space, Gail looked around curiously.

Along with some lovely antique furniture, there were a couple of comfortable-looking couches, several soft off-white leather armchairs and a large round coffee table.

A thick-pile smoke-grey carpet covered the floor and on either side of a beautiful Adam fireplace, which was filled with fresh flowers, there were recessed bookcases, their shelves overflowing.

Considering how very strongly she had felt about Zane Lorenson, aside from his appearance, she had known hardly anything about the man himself, what he was really like, what his tastes were.

This appeared to be the room of a man with eclectic tastes, a man who preferred his surroundings to be both simple and elegant.

On the walls several stark and dramatic snow scenes by Jonathan Cass rubbed shoulders with the vibrant colour and slumberous warmth of Tuscan landscapes by Marco Abruzzi.

Frowning a little, she studied them. With such diverse techniques and subject matter, they shouldn’t have been hung together. But somehow the contrast worked, highlighting them both.

It seemed that Zane Lorenson was a man who knew precisely what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to try the less obvious.

Her mother had always said that one could get a good idea of a person’s character from what kind of books they read so, taking a deep breath, Gail moved closer to the bookcases and looked at their contents.

Classics and poetry, travel and adventure, mysteries, biographies, autobiographies, the best popular paperback fiction and Booker Prize winners jostled for space.

She had picked up a copy of a recent Booker Prize winner when, glancing up, she met a pair of brilliant dark eyes.

He was leaning negligently against the door jamb, his tough, good-looking face shrewd, calculating, an arrogant tilt to his dark head.

Wearing a smart light-weight suit, a crisp shirt and tie and handmade shoes, he looked every inch the billionaire businessman. He also looked fit and virile and dangerous.

Though she had braced herself to see him again, the shock hit her like a blow over the heart and in that instant her heartbeat and her breathing, the very blood flowing through her veins, seemed to stop.

She had remembered how he looked—of course she had, his face had haunted her for years—and, apart from an added maturity, he looked much the same now as he had then.

But in the intervening years she had almost forgotten just what a powerful impact his physical presence had on her.

While she stood rooted to the spot, endeavouring to pull herself together, he continued to stand and study her in unnerving silence.

It seemed an age, but could only have been seconds, before she released the breath she was holding and her heart began to beat again in slow, heavy thuds.

How long had he been standing there quietly watching her while she’d nosed amongst his personal belongings?

She felt herself shrivel inwardly. Her one consolation was that the cool green gaze fixed on her face held no sign of recognition. But she had known it wouldn’t.

As soon as she had managed to regain some semblance of composure, she thrust the book she was holding back on to the shelf and said unevenly, ‘I’m sorry; I was just…’

‘Taking a look at what I read? What conclusion did you come to?’

His voice was low-pitched and attractive. It was a voice she had never forgotten. A voice she would have known amongst a million. A voice that could have called her back from the grave.

Shaken afresh, she said the first thing that came into her head. ‘That you have interesting tastes.’

‘Really? Do you?’ he drawled nonchalantly.

‘Yes, I believe so.’

‘What about the pictures?’ He nodded towards the impressive artwork.

So he had watched her studying those as well. ‘I like them.’

His gaze narrowed. ‘Do you know who painted them?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you know?’

She raised her chin, trying to give an air of authority and calm. ‘Though these are clearly originals, and I can only afford prints, Jonathan Cass and Marco Abruzzi are two of my favourite artists.’

He raised a dark, level brow. ‘My, my, we do seem to have a lot in common. Wouldn’t you say so?’

Clenching her teeth at the blatant mockery, she said nothing.

‘So I take it you have the same pictures hanging in your living room?’

Aware that he thought she was making the whole thing up to curry favour, she answered briefly, ‘No.’

‘Ah, now you disappoint me. Do you actually have any by either of those artists?’

‘I have two of Cass’s and—’

‘Which two?’

‘ Snowfall and Winter Journey .’

‘Any of Abruzzi’s?’

‘Three,’ she replied quickly.

‘And they are?’

‘ Olive Groves, Sunset and Fields of Sunflowers ,’ she said, listing her three favorites.

‘Do they all hang in the same room?’

‘No…I would never have had the nerve to hang them together.’

‘What do you think of the result?’

She wanted to say she hated it but, unable to frame the lie, she admitted, ‘It shouldn’t work, but somehow it does.’

‘I’m pleased you think so,’ he told her sardonically. ‘Well, now we’ve established that when it comes to books and paintings we’re practically soulmates, suppose you sit down and we’ll see how you measure up on the business side.’

But she had had enough. If Zane Lorenson had realized who she was, he couldn’t have been more unkind and derisive.

‘Thank you,’ she said stiffly, ‘but I’ve decided I don’t want the position after all, so there’s no point in staying for the interview.’

Appearing totally unruffled, he asked, ‘Why have you changed your mind?’

She had nothing to lose by speaking the truth. Lifting her chin and bravely meeting those green eyes, she told him, ‘I don’t like the way you’re making fun of me. It’s not businesslike and—’

‘You can’t bear to be teased?’

‘I can’t see the necessity for it.’

‘As a matter of fact, how a person reacts to being teased tells me quite a lot about his or her character. Now sit down.’

Though he spoke quietly, his voice cracked like a whip and, against all her inclinations, she found herself obeying a will stronger than her own.

CHAPTER TWO

AS GAIL sank into the nearest armchair, her heart hammering against her ribs so loudly she felt sure it must be audible, he commented, ‘That’s better.’

Then, with exaggerated politeness, ‘How do you like your coffee, Miss North?’

Her empty stomach was churning and, about to say she didn’t want any coffee, she thought better of it and answered, ‘A little cream, no sugar, thank you.’

‘Exactly how I like mine,’ he observed. Adding provokingly, ‘Now, isn’t that strange?’

Refusing to rise to the bait, she put her bag on the floor and sat in silence while he filled two cups with the dark fragrant liquid and added a dash of cream to each of them.

Passing her a cup, he sat down opposite and looked at her with a gleam in his eye that showed he enjoyed being master of the situation.

Watching her bite her lip, he queried, ‘Do I take it you’re vexed because of a little gentle teasing?’

Without answering, she looked at him stonily.

‘OK.’ He sat back with a hint of a smile on his lips. ‘Let’s keep this strictly business—where are you from?’

Still riled, she answered quickly. ‘I was born in the northeast—’

The moment the words were out, she could have bitten her tongue. She shouldn’t have told him that. Rona had always teased her unmercilessly about her Geordie accent and it was the one thing that he might possibly remember.

She risked a quick glance at him and the little flare of satisfaction in those handsome eyes made her heart sink.

Had he guessed her identity?

No, surely not. It must be because he had managed to provoke her into speech.

His expression bland now, he asked, ‘Whereabouts in the north-east?’

‘Tyneside,’ she answered reluctantly, certain he was still mocking her.

When he nodded, clearly absorbing the information, Gail looked up at him and cautiously studied his handsome profile. She had forgotten just how devastatingly attractive his white smile was, and her heart lurched crazily.

Not that she was still attracted to him, she told herself hastily. It was just remembering the past that had affected her so strongly.

While she tried to steady herself, she made a pretence of sipping her coffee.

She was hoping that he had let the subject drop when he asked casually, ‘How long did you live in the north?’