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Katy had made a mess of quite a few before achieving a perfect result. She had been fascinated to see the china after it had been fired again, the coating melted away and the enamel fused into the glaze.
She had spent her second week with a liner, the woman who applied the enamel colour, often as not gold, on the rims and handles of the pieces by spinning them on a turntable and using a shaped brush before the pieces were fired for the last time.
To Katy it had been fascinating, and the hands-on experience had given her a much clearer insight into how her original decorative designs would work. Plus it had earned her the respect of most of the work-force.
She glanced at her wrist-watch and frowned: she was cutting it fine. She picked up the cup and saucer and walked through to the small kitchen. Turning on the tap, she rinsed the china in the sink and stood it on the drainer. She picked up her black leather briefcase and headed towards the front door. Katy hesitated; today was her first board meeting, a new challenge, and, turning, she surveyed her reflection in the hall mirror.
The image that stared back at her was reassuring. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a neat chignon; she had kept her make-up to a minimum—a subtle pink lip gloss outlined her full lips, the barest touch of mascara darkened her long lashes. The grey wool tailored jacket fitted neatly over her shoulders and traced her slender waist. She ran her hands over her hips, smoothing the soft grey fabric of the slim-fitting skirt.
The perfect business image, she thought happily, and with a last adjustment to the floppy white bow at the neck of her blouse she turned and let herself out of the apartment.
Her black moderately heeled shoes clicked jauntily on the pavement as she walked the few hundred yards to the Meldenton offices. She did not see the appreciative male stares as her mind concentrated on the meeting ahead. She would have been horrified to know that the Lena Lawrence image she had always considered an act, a game, was very much a reality.
The lithe way she moved, her beautiful face and curvaceous body, stopped men in their tracks whether she was wearing a grey business suit or a bikini.
'Good morning, Mary.' Katy stopped at the head secretary's desk. 'Have my father and Mr Jeffries gone up yet?' And with a tilt of her blonde head she indicated the floor above that housed the boardroom. 'And what about John?' John had been the firm's accountant for donkey's years; he was due to retire at Christmas, but he also owned five per cent of Meldenton.
'Still as enthusiastic as ever,' Mary said, shaking her head. 'You could give me time to answer, Katy! Yes, they are all upstairs, drinking coffee and waiting for you.'
'Oh, damn, I didn't want to be last!' she exclaimed and, swinging on her heel, walked out of the office and along the short hall to the stairs.
Thank God Jake Granton wasn't going to be here! She could imagine the smug satisfaction he would have derived from seeing her appear late. But last night over dinner with her father her fear of meeting Jake again had overcome her resistance to mentioning his name, and she had asked her father if Jake was attending the meeting.
Her father had laughed. 'Good God, no. Jake is much too busy to bother with a small company like ours. Why, the dividend he gets from our shares wouldn't keep him in handkerchiefs. Surely you remember, Katy? His father died a while back and now he is the owner of Granton's. In the past few years the bank has gone from strength to strength; he has branched out as a financier, and there are branches of Granton Holdings all over the world. Plus Jake still heads the Italian company. Spends a lot of time in Italy, does Jake.'
'I see,' she had mumbled, wishing she had never asked.
'No, I don't see much of Jake these days, and he hasn't attended one of our meetings in four years. I vote his proxy. We keep in touch by telephone, which reminds me, I'd better give him a ring.'
At the top of the stairs Katy crossed to the large oak doors, her slender hand curled round the polished brass handle, and for a second she hesitated as a question popped into her mind. Why did her father have to ring Jake? He had never said, and she had been so relieved to know she was not going to have to face the man that she had forgotten to ask.
Turning the handle, she pushed open the massive door and, straightening her shoulders, she said a silent prayer that the correspondence course in business management she had followed for the last two years would prove enough to see her through the next hour, and walked into the room.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled, her eyes met her father's and he looked away: something was wrong. Slowly she looked around the room; the solicitor Mr Jeffries greeted her, she responded, then John did, then her wary gaze was riveted on the fourth man, who stood silhouetted against the window. With the sun behind him she was not able to see his face clearly, but it made no difference. It was Jake Granton... Her heart missed a beat, she blinked, and stared.
'Good morning, Katy, I'm glad to see you have finally arrived. Shall we sit down and begin?'
'Y—yes. G—good morning,' she stuttered. Her legs threatened to cave in beneath her, and without waiting for a second invitation she collapsed in the nearest chair, and, placing her briefcase on the large oval table in front of her, she clasped her hands tightly together in her lap to stop their trembling.
Katy stared as Jake casually walked forward and took the seat at the head of the table. His dark hair was longer than on their last meeting, but the tanned, ruggedly attractive face still wore that mask of cold contempt she remembered so well.
He had not forgiven or forgotten their last evening together. His black eyes returned her look with a glittering remorseless intensity that sent a shiver of fear down her spine.
What was he doing here? And why was he seated at the top of the table?
Her father held thirty-five per cent of Meldenton, she held thirty and Jake another thirty. John the accountant owned the odd five per cent. Surely the place at the head of the table should be her father's... ? A dozen questions swirled in her brain, but she had not the courage to voice them; her earlier confidence had evaporated with one rapier-like glance from Jake.
The preliminaries on the agenda were over before Katy actually began to take in what was being said.
'Well, gentlemen, I think we can dispense-----'
'Just a minute!' Katy snapped, shooting an angry glance at Jake. She was not going to allow him to ignore her p
resence—she had as much right to be here as he had. More, she thought positively, slowly regaining some control over her trembling nerves.
'Forgive me, gentlemen and lady, or perhaps Lena.' His wolfish smile and poor attempt at a joke were met by laughter from the other three men, but Katy saw the amusement did not reach his eyes.
'Katy will do fine after all, we are all friends,' she responded coolly.
