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CHAPTER ONE
‘ME?’ SEPHY stared at Mrs Williams—the company secretary’s assistant—in horror, her velvet-brown eyes opening wide as she said again, ‘Me? Stand in for Mr Quentin’s secretary? I don’t think I could, Pat. I mean—’
‘Of course you could,’ Pat Williams interrupted briskly, her sharp voice, which matched her sharp face and thin, angular body, signalling that the matter was not open for discussion. ‘You’re as bright as a button, Seraphina, even if you do insist on hiding your light under a bushel most of the time, and after six years at Quentin Dynamics you know as much as me about the firm and its operating procedures. More, probably, after working for Mr Harper in Customer Support and Service for four years.’
Sephy smiled weakly. The Customer Support and Services department was, by its very nature, a fast-moving and hectic environment within Quentin Dynamics, and in her position as assistant to Mr Harper—who was small and plump and genial, but the sort of boss who arrived late, left early and had three-hour lunch breaks most days—she was used to dealing with the hundred and one panics that erupted daily on her own initiative. But Mr Harper and Customer Service was one thing; Conrad Quentin, the millionaire entrepreneur and tycoon founder of the firm, was quite another!
Sephy took a deep breath and said firmly, ‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea, Pat. I’m sorry, but I’m sure there must be someone else more suitable? What about Jenny Brown, Mr Eddleston’s secretary? Or Suzy Dodds? Or…or you?’
The other woman waved a dismissive bony hand. ‘Those two girls would last ten minutes with Mr Quentin and you know it, and with the end of year accounts to pull together I can’t desert Mr Meadows. No, you’re ideal. You know the ins and outs of the business, you’ve got a level head on your shoulders, and you’re used to dealing with awkward customers every day of the week so Mr Quentin won’t throw you. We can get a good temp to fill in for you until Mr Quentin’s secretary is back—’
‘Can’t Mr Quentin have the good temp?’ Sephy interjected desperately.
‘He’d eat her alive!’ Pat’s beady black eyes held Sephy’s golden-brown ones. ‘You know how impatient he is. He hasn’t got time for someone who doesn’t know the ropes, besides which he expects his secretary to practically live here, and most girls have got—’ She stopped abruptly, suddenly aware she was being tactless as Sephy’s small heart-shaped face flushed hotly.
‘Most girls have got boyfriends or husbands or whatever,’ Sephy finished flatly.
Sephy had never hidden the fact that she rarely dated and that her social diary wasn’t exactly the most riveting reading, but it wasn’t particularly warming to think that Pat Williams—along with everyone else, most probably—thought she had nothing better to do than work twenty-four hours a day.
‘Well, yes,’ Pat murmured uncomfortably.
‘What about Marilyn?’
‘Tried her first, lasted an hour.’
‘Philippa?’
‘Howled her eyes out in the ladies’ cloakroom all lunchtime and has gone home with a migraine,’ Pat said triumphantly. ‘She’s not used to men snapping and snarling at her like Mr Quentin did.’
Sephy thought of the beautiful ash-blonde who was the marketing manager’s secretary, and who had different men in flash, expensive sports cars waiting outside the building for her every night of the week and nodded. ‘No, I can imagine,’ she agreed drily. ‘And you think I am, is that it?’
‘Seraphina, please. Try it for this afternoon at least.’ In spite of the ‘please’ it was more of an order than a request, and Sephy stared at the other woman exasperatedly.
Pat Williams was the only person she knew—apart from her mother—who insisted on giving her her full Christian name when she knew full well Sephy loathed it, but it went with the brusque, army-style manner of the company secretary’s assistant, and the utilitarian haircut and severely practical clothes.
For her first two years at Quentin Dynamics, Sephy—along with the other secretaries and personnel of the hugely successful software firm that majored in specialist packages for different types of companies—had thoroughly disliked Pat Williams, but there had come a day when she and the other woman had been working late and she had found Pat in the ladies’ cloakroom in tears.
All Pat’s defences had been down, and when Sephy had discovered her history—an upbringing in a children’s home where she’d met the husband she adored, only for him to develop multiple sclerosis just after they married, which now confined him to a wheelchair and made Pat the bread-winner—her friendship with the older woman had begun.
And it was that which made Sephy sigh loudly, narrow her eyes and nod her dark head resignedly. ‘One afternoon,’ she agreed quietly. ‘But I can’t see me lasting any better than the others, Pat. It’s a well-known fact Madge Watkins is so devoted to him she puts up with anything, and she’s been his secretary for decades! How can anyone step into her shoes?’
‘She’s been his secretary for thirteen years,’ Pat corrected cheerfully, allowing herself a smile now Sephy had agreed to help her out of what had become a very tight spot. ‘And I’m not asking you to step into her shoes; they wouldn’t fit you.’
They both thought of the elderly spinster, who looked like a tiny shrivelled up prune but was excellent at her job, and absolutely ruthless when it came to ensuring that her esteemed boss’s life ran like clockwork with lesser mortals kept very firmly in their place. ‘How long is she expected to be in hospital?’ Sephy asked flatly.
‘Not sure.’ Pat eyed her carefully. ‘She was rushed in in the middle of the night with stomach pains and they’re talking about doing an exploratory op today or tomorrow.’
Wonderful. Sephy sighed long and loudly and left it to Pat to inform Ted Harper that his secretary and right-hand man—or woman, in this case—had been commandeered for the foreseeable future. He wouldn’t like it—he might have to start working for that sizeable salary he picked up each month—but he wouldn’t argue. Everyone fell down and worshipped at the feet of the illustrious head of Quentin Dynamics, an
d it wouldn’t occur to any of Conrad Quentin’s staff to deny him anything, Sephy thought wryly.
Not that she had had anything to do with him, to be fair, but it was common knowledge that thirteen years ago, at the age of twenty-five, Conrad Quentin had had a meteoric rise in the business world, and his power and wealth were legendary. As was his taste for beautiful women. He was the original love ’em and leave ’em type, but, judging by the number of times his picture appeared in the paper with a different glittering female hanging adoringly on his arm at some spectacular function or other, one had to assume his attraction outshone his reputation.
Or perhaps the sort of women Conrad Quentin chose thought they were beautiful and desirable enough to tame the wolf? Sephy’s clear brow wrinkled. Maybe they even relished the challenge? Whatever, in spite of his well-publicised affairs over the years, with some of the precious darlings of the jet-set, no one had managed to snare him yet.
Oh, what was she doing wasting time thinking about Mr Quentin’s love-life? Sephy shook herself irritably and then quickly fixed her face in a purposely blank expression as Pat sailed out of Ted Harper’s office and said cheerfully, ‘Right, that’s settled, then. I’ve told him I’ll get a temp here for tomorrow morning and he can manage for one afternoon. Are you ready?’
For Conrad Quentin? Absolutely not. ‘Yes, I’m ready,’ Sephy said, with what she considered admirable calm in the circumstances, resisting the temptation to nip to the ladies’ cloakroom. All the titivating in the world wouldn’t make any difference to the medium height, gentle-eyed, dark-haired girl who would stare back at her from the long rectangular mirror above the three basins.
She wasn’t plain, she knew that, but she was…nondescript, she admitted silently as she followed Pat out of the office and along the corridor towards the lift for the exalted top floor. Her honey-brown eyes, shoulder-length thick brown hair and small neat nose were all pleasant, but unremarkable, and to cap it all she had an abundance of freckles scattered across her smooth, creamy skin that made her look heaps younger than her twenty-six years.
‘Here we are, then.’ They had emerged from the lift and Pat was being deliberately hearty as she led Sephy past her own office and that of the company secretary and financial director. Conrad Quentin’s vast suite took up all the rest of the top floor, and to say the opulence was intimidating was putting it mildly. ‘Your home from home for the next little while.’
‘I said an afternoon, Pat,’ Sephy hissed quietly as the other woman opened the door in front of them. Sephy had visited the top floor a few times—rapid calls which had lasted as long as the delivery of files or whatever had necessitated—and she found the lavish surroundings somewhat surreal. ‘He’s bound to treat me the same as the rest.’
