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He had turned and left before she could pull herself together sufficiently to think, and then, as the door closed behind him with Mike and Andy glued to his heels, her colleagues were congratulating her somewhat grudgingly and the remark had to be put on the back-burner of her mind.
'So Mike was at uni with the esteemed Luke Hawkton, was he?' Mitchell was obviously put out that his ideas hadn't had a mention. 'Think that's why he's going with Top Promotions?'
'I think Josie's proposal had something to do with it,' one of the other men remarked drily. 'Don't be a sore loser, Mitch; it doesn't suit you.'
But Mitchell's comment, along with Luke's parting shot, were in the forefront of her mind that afternoon as she sat in her comfortable, bright lounge with the full-length windows to the balcony wide open and Mog lying in purring ecstasy in a spot of blazing sunlight with a whole celebratory tin of red salmon in his stomach.
It was Luke's 'unfortunately' that bothered her, more than the fact that he had referred to her stupid gibe to Charlotte. He surely hadn't taken her seriously, had he? She bit on her lower lip anxiously as she went over and over the intonation of his voice in her mind. But so what if he had? She could handle that sort of hassle; she'd been doing it for ten years or more, since she'd first stepped out into the big bad world. But she wouldn't like to think she'd got the job because Luke happened to know her boss.
She frowned into the thick warm air. He either genuinely liked her ideas or he didn't. And if he didn't… She shook her head slowly. How did you know with a man like him? He wasn't like any other man she had ever met in the whole of her life… except one. The thought jumped in from nowhere but once in her mind it stuck.
Yes, there was something about him that reminded her of Peter Staples, something…something she couldn't quite put her finger on, and it had caused an instant and probably unfair antagonism that was as fierce as it was illogical. She thought back to her behaviour of the evening before and winced at her barely concealed hostility to the man who was now, in effect, her bread and butter.
'Oh, Mog…' She sighed as she spoke but Mog was too full of salmon and too comfortable to respond to the naked appeal in her voice. He cast her a long, considering glance from large, slanted green eyes before the express train in his chest resumed its rumbling journey, the sunlight turning his brindled fur into a mass of shimmering colour.
This was the chance of a lifetime, an opportunity to nail her colours well and truly to the career mast and cement her credibility into place with unshakeable firmness, and she wasn't going to let Mitch's spitefulness or Luke Hawkton's innuendoes spoil things. She narrowed her eyes determinedly, pushing back the riot of tiny auburn curls that fell about her shoulders. She could do it. She knew she could pull this off; that wasn't in question. The only thing was…
Her mouth hardened. Could she tolerate Luke Hawkton in her life for any amount of time? The thought was stupid and she knew it. Of course she could; she would have to. And he wasn't Peter Staples; he wasn't even remotely like him.
Peter had been wild and dark and fascinatingly handsome to the young fifteen-year-old Josie Owens, with his long jet-black hair and slanted ebony eyes that danced wickedly as they promised the moon. He had been ten years older than she and quite out of her orbit, with his flashy red sports car and his succession of tall, model-type girlfriends that he seemed to change with each passing month.
Their parents had been friends, but then everyone was friends with everyone else in the tiny Sussex village where she had grown up. And so she had loved him from afar, utterly tongue-tied if they ever happened to meet at one of the numerous social gatherings the middle-aged community loved so much and which the younger folks tended to endure, watching him with huge doe eyes and hanging on his every word.
Quite when he had started to flirt with her she wasn't sure. She had heard rumours that his last girlfriend, a sophisticated, leggy blonde with the face of an angel and the figure of a goddess, had thrown him over—an unprecedented occurrence—and that he was upset about it, but she hadn't been able to bring herself to believe the hearsay. Who in their right mind would reject Peter Staples? He was… just perfect. And so when he'd told her to keep their dates secret she hadn't asked him why. One didn't question a god.
They had seen each other three times before he had made the pass at her which had ended in an undignified fight for her virginity. She could still hear the caustic, ugly words he had shouted at her in the heat of his temper when he'd realised his crude seduction attempt had failed, the foul language as he had pulled her back into the car, furious that she had refused him and was demanding to go home.
And then he had driven like a madman, the more so when he had seen her fear, and the car had seemed to fly down the narrow, high-bordered lanes with their tight curves and bends, its expensive tyres screaming and the world outside a green blur. He had been laughing when the car turned the corner and hit the farm tractor.
It had been the first thing she remembered when she had finally come out of the coma—that spiteful, malevolent laughter ringing in her ears and the crash of grinding metal against metal.
The young eighteen-year-old farmboy had been killed instantly; Peter had walked away from the crash with nothing more than cuts and bruises. And she…? She had had a fractured skull, two broken legs and a crushed pelvis that had necessitated an operation. An operation that had robbed her of the chance of ever being a mother.
'Stop it, Josie.' She spoke the words out loud and this time something in her voice brought Mog to his feet, and he stretched comfortably before sauntering over and rubbing against her legs. 'Good boy…' She spoke automatically, her hand stroking the sleek fur as she gave herself silent orders to pull herself together.
Trips down memory lane were futile and destructive; she knew that. She knew it. And it was rare for her to indulge in them these days. The ringing of the telephone at her elbow interrupted her self-admonishment.
'Miss Owens?' Luke Hawkton's voice was unmistakable.
'Yes?' Her heart stopped, and then raced on like a runaway train.
'This is Luke Hawkton. I'm sorry to bother you at home like this but I have a problem.'
'You do?' Oh, for goodness' sake say something businesslike, something that will impress him, she thought disgustedly as she heard her faint, breathless voice.
'I have to fly to Germany tonight—an unexpected business complication that may well necessitate my spending several days out there.' The firm, controlled voice wasn't unfriendly, but nevertheless she found herself holding her breath as she listened to him. 'I don't want any further delay on the Night Hawk project, Miss Owens; there has been enough already. The thing seems to have picked up problems like a cat picks up fleas.'
'Oh.' She glanced down at her feet to meet Mog's bright green gaze, which she was sure had darkened with disapproval at his simile.
'I would like you to get all the relevant data sorted out over the weekend and bring it out to me. I will arrange for a car to pick you up at eight on Monday morning and my secretary will be waiting for you.'
'I…' She took a deep breath and tried again. 'Are you saying you want me to fly out to Germany, Mr Hawkton?'
'The name's Luke, and, yes, that's exactly what I'm saying,' he said coolly.
'But I could fax you—'
'No, that would not be satisfactory.' He cut across her protest immediately. 'I want you in front of me, where we can discuss things properly and get everything ironed out,' he continued firmly. 'Your plane leaves Heathrow at nine-thirty, so I understand, and my secretary will give you the tickets and all the necessary information concerning your hotel and so on. A car will be waiting on your arrival in—'
