Lee Wilkinson - Mistress Against Her Will

‘We left when I was twelve.’

‘Why?’

She paused, worried about how much information to reveal but replied honestly. ‘My father died when I was ten, and two years later my mother remarried.’

Everything she had told him so far was the exact truth, but if he wanted to delve any further into her family background, rather than admit that her stepfather had been American and they had moved to the States, she would have to resort to lies.

However, to her relief, he changed tack by saying, ‘So fill me in on your personal details—full name, age, where you live, previous work experience…’

‘It’s all in my CV.’

He leaned back and crossed his ankles, perfectly at ease. ‘I dare say it is, Miss North. But I’d prefer to hear it from your own lips…’

It was so in keeping with his attitude that she should have expected it.

‘You can start by telling me your Christian name.’

‘Gail.’

‘Short for Abigail?’

‘Yes.’ She had been praying that he would take the name at face value and not make the connection.

Her parents had always called her Abbey, but after pointing out that in books Abigail was usually a servant’s name, her stepsister Rona had used her full name, apparently in an unkind attempt to belittle her.

It was one of the reasons that, when she and her mother had returned to England, she had started to call herself Gail.

‘A nice old-fashioned name,’ Zane Lorenson commented after a moment. ‘So how do you come to be called Abigail?’

‘It was my maternal grandmother’s name.’

‘Would you believe me if I told you my maternal grandmother was named Abigail?’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ she said shortly.

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well, at least you’re honest. But, in this case, mistaken. It happens to be the truth.’

Her mouth went dry as he added, his tone reflective, ‘It’s quite an unusual name these days. You don’t meet many Abigails.’ His gaze held hers as if suggesting there was more meaning to his words.

So he had known who she was all along, and that was why he’d treated her the way he had .

If it had been at all possible she would have made a run for it, but her old fear of him was back in force and she was frozen into immobility, unable to either move or speak.

Quite a few seconds had passed before she appreciated that his lean, tanned face showed no sign of the anger or hostility she would have expected had he known who she was. She was being ridiculous, and she knew it. She had to keep calm.

His expression held a kind of studied patience as he waited for an answer to a question she hadn’t even heard.

‘I—I’m sorry,’ she stammered.

‘I asked how old you were.’

‘Twenty…’ she paused ‘…six.’ It was her first white lie and the words almost stuck in her throat as she pretended to be older than she was. She had to make sure he hadn’t made the connection.

‘Which school did you go to?’

‘Langton Chase.’ She had gone to the well-known all girls school for just a year after she and her mother had returned to England.

He placed it immediately. ‘So you lived in Sussex?’

‘Yes.’

‘With your parents?’

Though after the separation there had only been her mother, she answered, ‘Yes.’

‘Do your parents still live there?’

She shook her head. ‘They’re both dead now.’

‘Were you very close?’

‘I was to my mother.’

‘Any brothers or sisters?’

Family relationships were a minefield, and she answered briefly, ‘No.’

He ran long, lean fingers over his smooth jaw before moving on to ask, ‘How old were you when you left school?’

With a sigh of relief at the change of subject, she told him, ‘Eighteen.’

‘Then what?’

‘I spent a year at St Helen’s Business College before getting a job at Randalls.’

‘And there you were…’ he picked up her CV ‘…PA to David Randall.’

She nodded, then, all at once foreseeing a problem that Paul hadn’t taken into account, she added hastily, ‘After Mr Randall had a heart attack and retired, the company was closed down.’

Zane Lorenson’s clear, long-lashed eyes pinned her. ‘The financial news indicated that it had been bought by The Manton Group.’

Her heart sank but somehow she managed steadily, ‘Yes, it was. They paid off the workers and closed it down as soon as it was legally theirs.’

‘What do you think of Paul Manton?’

‘W-what?’ she stammered.

‘I asked what you thought of Paul Manton. Presumably he did the negotiating and wielded the axe. Or was it someone else?’

‘A Mr Desmond,’ she said, seizing on the suggestion.

Mark Desmond, Paul’s second in command, a bluff, hearty man she had disliked on sight, had come in with Paul a couple of times.

‘I’m surprised. Manton usually enjoys doing his own dirty work… Tell me, what did you think of the decision to close Randalls down?’

‘I thought it was totally wrong.’ For perhaps the first time her tone held real conviction. ‘It wasn’t what Mr Randall had wanted or expected.’

He raised a brow, questioning her frankness. ‘He couldn’t have known what kind of men he was dealing with, otherwise he would have expected it.’

Then, with another swift change of subject, ‘Where do you live?’

‘In Kensington.’

‘Which part of Kensington?’ he pressed.

‘Just off the West Brackensfield Road,’ she answered reluctantly.

She had hoped he would leave it at that, but he asked, ‘Whereabouts exactly?’

‘Delafield House, Rolchester Square. I share a flat,’ she went on, rambling a bit because she was nervous.

‘Does that mean you have a live-in lover?’

She shook her head. ‘No. It means I share with another girl.’

‘Have you any ties or commitments at home?’

She shook her head.

‘No steady boyfriend?’

She stuck as close to the truth as she could. ‘I’m not seeing anyone just at the moment.’

Studying her heart-shaped face, with its small straight nose, beautiful almond eyes and dark winged brows, its flawless skin and pure bone-structure, he commented, ‘That surprises me.’ Then, drily, ‘Or have you heard that I prefer my PA to be a free agent?’

Determined to avoid direct lies wherever possible, she said, ‘I split up with Jason, my previous boyfriend, some six months ago.’

‘And there’s been no one since then?’

Forced into a direct lie, she surreptitiously crossed her fingers and said, ‘No.’

‘So you’re still broken-hearted?’ her tormentor asked, the old hateful mockery back.

‘Are such personal questions really necessary?’ she demanded, losing her cool.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ he assured her, his voice flippant. Then, smiling a little at her indignation, ‘You see I don’t want to take on a lovelorn PA whose mind isn’t on her work.’

‘I am not lovelorn,’ she informed him raggedly.

‘Does that mean you’ve got over it? Or you didn’t love him in the first place?’

The unholy gleam in his eyes telling her that this was just another attempt to bait her, she bit back the angry words, took a deep breath and repeated more calmly, ‘I am not lovelorn.’

With an ironic smile, he saluted that show of anger management before asking, ‘Do you have any objections to travelling?’

On firmer ground now, she replied, ‘None at all.’

‘Done much?’

‘Not as much as I would have liked. Europe mainly…’ After her mother’s untimely death she had taken holidays with Joanne, one of the secretaries from Randalls.

‘Ever been to the States?’

She should have seen that coming. Once again she crossed her fingers and lied. ‘No.’

His cool green eyes studied her face and lingered there, and she had the strangest feeling that he knew perfectly well that she hadn’t spoken the truth.

Unable to meet that probing gaze, she was forced to look away.

There was a long thoughtful pause, then he said, ‘Tell me, do you usually wear glasses?’

Ambushed by the unexpected question, she hesitated fractionally before saying as steadily as possible, ‘Why, yes.’

‘Strange. When I asked Mrs Rogers to describe you, she failed to mention them.’

Leaning over, he lifted the glasses from Gail’s nose and squinted through them, before asking, ‘Why do you wear them?’

‘Why?’

‘Yes, why? As far as I can see, these are merely low-strength reading glasses.’

Feeling her colour rise, she said nothing.

He handed them back to her. ‘So you don’t wear glasses as a rule. You put them on especially for this interview.’

Both were statements rather than questions, but her failure to dispute either was answer enough.

‘Why did you feel that was necessary?’

Cursing the impulse that had made her put them on, she stammered, ‘Well I—I thought they would make me look more…efficient, more competent…’

His green eyes glinted. ‘That reason hardly inspires confidence. It strongly suggests that you aren’t at all sure of yourself or your capabilities.’

‘I’m quite sure I’m capable of doing the job.’

‘Possibly you are, but lying to me is hardly the way to get it.’

So she had failed.

All she could feel for a moment or two was a sense of relief that she wouldn’t have to go through with something she had dreaded.

Hard on the heels of that relief came a leaden feeling of failure as she realized just how angry and disappointed Paul would be.

Then both those feelings were swamped by the urgent necessity to leave, to get away from Zane Lorenson’s clear-eyed scrutiny, his condemnation.

Gathering up her bag, she thrust the glasses clumsily into it and jumped to her feet, babbling, ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time…’

He rose too and took a step towards her. At five feet six inches she was fairly tall for a woman, but at well over six feet he seemed to tower over her. ‘Don’t rush off.’

Ignoring the quietly spoken order, she was about to head for the door when his lean fingers closed lightly round her wrist and kept her where she was. ‘I said don’t rush off.’

He had said that same thing to her once before and she shuddered as, his touch burning into her like a brand, she made an effort to pull free.

It was to no avail and, panic-stricken, recalling that past encounter and desperate to escape, she tried harder. ‘Please let me go.’

Ignoring her plea, he put his free hand on her shoulder and pressed her back into the chair. Then, releasing her wrist, he stood over her.

Her voice sounding high and frightened even to her own ears, she objected, ‘You’ve no right to keep me here against my will.’

Clicking his tongue, he told her severely, ‘Now you’re being melodramatic.’

His words were like a dash of cold water and, realizing the justice of his remark, she took a deep steadying breath and apologized shamefacedly. ‘I’m sorry. I really don’t know what’s got into me.’

‘I dare say the prospect of being interviewed made you nervous,’ he suggested with smooth mockery. Now, if you’re still interested in the job, there are one or two things you ought to know…

‘I expect my PA to be available for twenty-four hours a day if I think it’s necessary. That’s why I asked if you have any ties at home.

‘More importantly, I always give my PA my complete trust and in return I expect discretion and one hundred per cent loyalty…’