AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Ashley bit back a smile. ‘I don’t actually think that’s in my job specification.’
‘Perhaps not.’ He bent to toss another log into the smouldering fire. ‘So what did the agency tell you about the job?’
He rested his hands against his chest as he waited for her answer—his fingers steepled together against the dark shadow of his jaw. The pose was faintly brooding—so that for a moment Ashley thought it looked as if he were holding an imaginary gun and the stark and unexpected metaphor unsettled her. She guessed that with his army experience, he was no stranger to guns and violence.
But more than anything, in that moment, Jack Marchant looked all dark and rampant sexuality. Like every woman’s fantasy come to life. Suddenly, she understood why middle-aged Julia at the agency had become hot and flustered when she’d described Jack Marchant as ‘formidable’. And maybe his effect on women didn’t have an age barrier—because suddenly she was feeling a little hot and flustered herself.
‘I… they said you’d written several biographies of great men. Mainly military men.’
‘How very dry that sounds.’
‘And that I would be typing up your latest manuscript—’
‘From longhand? I hope they specified that? I’ve tried typing it myself but tapping out on a keyboard distracts my thoughts. I prefer to write it out—and I don’t think I’m alone in that.’ He looked at her curiously. ‘Many authors still do, I believe?’
Ashley nodded. She found herself wondering what his handwriting was like. As torturous and as twisted as the thought processes which seemed to be firing up behind those ebony eyes? ‘So I believe.’
‘And they told you it’s a novel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever typed a novel before?’
She nodded. ‘I did one by Hannah Minnock early last year—she was a teacher at the school where I was working and it was her first book, called Ringing TheChanges. It was a chick-lit book.’ His face remained blank. ‘You know—funny, frothy stuff aimed at professional women. About divorce.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘And that’s considered funny, is it?’
‘I just type the story,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t sit there in judgement of it.’
‘Well, you’ll find that my novel is as far removed from your frothy, fluffy “chick-lit” book as it is possible to be.’
‘I rather thought it might be,’ she answered quietly. ‘What exactly is it about?’
There was a pause and, briefly, she saw his knuckles tightening and the flicker of the flames casting bloodlike shadows over them. ‘My time in the army.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Really?’ He raised his dark brows in mocking question. ‘And what exactly do you know about army life?’
‘Well, only what I’ve seen on the news and read in the papers.’
‘And are you easily shocked? Are you queasy about blood and gore?’ Black eyes blazed at her and sent out an unmistakable challenge. ‘Do you scare easily, Ashley?’
She felt the sudden race of her heart in response to his question. Once, she would have blurted out that yes, she had known fear—real fear. The cruel personality of one of her foster mothers had seen to that. Sadistic Mrs Fraser who had locked her in the cupboard under the stairs all evening after accusing her of a crime of which the ten-year-old Ashley had been innocent.
She would never forget the experience—not as long as she lived. It had left a hideous mark on her memory which could never be erased. The dust and the cobwebs which had tickled her cheeks had been bad enough—taunting her with the knowledge that large, wriggly spiders were probably just waiting to drop down onto her head. But it had been the darkness which had terrified her more than anything. The claustrophobic darkness which had provided an ideal breeding ground for her fevered imagination. Ghosts and ghouls had come to haunt her that night and visions of lonely graveyards had filled her with an unspeakable kind of dread.
When eventually the door had been opened and light had flooded in Ashley had been beyond comprehension—or past caring. Her lips had been bleeding from where she had clamped her teeth into them and her clothes had been damp with sweat. The doctor told her afterwards that she must have had some kind of fit—but she would never forget the look of horror on his face, which he hadn’t quite managed to hide. As if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing—as if such things shouldn’t be happening in this modern day and age. But they did happen. Ashley had never been under any illusion about that. Times changed but human nature didn’t.
The council had found another placement for her almost immediately—although Mrs Fraser had used her clever and manipulative tongue to convince her next set of foster parents that she was nothing but trouble. A liar and a cheat, she’d said. Ashley’s reputation had preceded her. She had quickly learned that if someone had a fixed idea that you were a bad person, then they would be on the lookout for signs to prove just that.
As a result, she had learned to subdue her hot temper and quick tongue. She had buried her more excitable character traits along with the squalid memory of that day. She had become quiet and calm Ashley, who would not rise to provocation or threat. And if Jack Marchant wanted to know the precise details of when and why she had been scared—then he would wait in vain for an answer from her. Because some secrets were best forgotten.
‘No, I don’t scare easily,’ she said.
‘Don’t you? And yet just now I saw something darken your eyes,’ he observed softly. ‘Something which looked exactly like fear.’
He was, she realised, an exceedingly perceptive man. And surely too intelligent to accept a smooth evasion? But he was her employer, nothing else. He had rights, yes—but only those which affected her work. He did not have the right to probe into her past and to prise out the horrors which she had buried so deep. She lifted her chin to meet the question in his eyes. ‘Everyone has dark corners in their memories—things they’d rather just forget,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t they?’
