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She agreed, dying to ask exactly what story he had been told to make him sound so cheerfully unconcerned.
He limped across with the glasses and plonked himself down on the couch beside her, extending his leg in front of him. ‘Damned hip—they tell me I have to have a new one put in next month. Cheers!’ He clinked his glass against hers. ‘Drink up! Drink up!’
Nora sipped cautiously and coughed politely into her hand, blinking rapidly to try and clear the tears in her eyes.
Sir Prescott chuckled. ‘That’ll put hair on your chest!’ He settled back, black eyes snapping. ‘Work for Maitlands, do you? Computers and all that rigmarole. Pity!’
Nora wasn’t quite sure what she was being pitied for, so she took another sip of her whisky, which encouraged her to admit bravely, ‘I don’t…work at Maitlands any more, I mean. I quit. Today.’
The black eyes lit up. ‘Good! Good! Blake persuaded you to come to us, has he? Cunning lad. Says you’re a top brain. Talked you up a storm. Mentioned that you’re working on something of your own that could be just up our alley…software for use in sea-bed salvage work.’ He took a long, satisfied gulp of his drink, not noticing Nora’s stunned expression. ‘That’s how I started this little empire of mine, you know—in the marine salvage business.’ He chuckled. ‘That programme of yours sounds as if it might have uses in the underwater construction
and drilling fields, too. Maybe you should be thinking of getting some investment capital behind you to help develop your ideas and diversify them into commercial applications. And if it’s finance you’re after, well, I’m always on the lookout to invest in up-and-comers with bright ideas. Of course, if we negotiated our way into doing some business together, that would be over and above any salary you make with PresCorp….’
Nora lubricated her frozen vocal cords with a warm trickle of whisky. ‘Sir—uh…Scotty, I haven’t really even thought about—’
Suddenly the door crashed open and Blake strode into the room with a thunderous scowl. ‘What the devil is going on?’
‘Ah, there you are, boy. We were wondering where you’d got to, weren’t we, Nora?’ Sir Prescott said blandly.
Blake’s eyes took on a strange glitter as they whipped suspiciously back and forth between the pair on the couch. ‘Were you? How strange, then, that Sandra never bothered to tell me that Nora was here to see me. I had to learn it from some pimply intern.’ He prowled over to frown at the older man. ‘I thought the doctor had told you to cut down on the hard stuff until after your operation?’
Sir Prescott’s bony knuckles whitened on his glass, as if he was afraid Blake would snatch it away. ‘This is a special occasion.’
‘Yes, Scotty was just offering to back me in a business venture,’ said Nora, nervously defiant. ‘Apparently you’ve been telling him all about the sea-bed project I’m working on—’
‘Scotty?’ Blake folded his arms across his chest as he loomed over her, looking magnificently menacing in his black suit, black silk shirt and steel-grey tie. ‘I had no idea you two were such friends.’
‘Come off it, Blake. I may have jumped the gun but I thought this was what you wanted.’ Sir Prescott chuckled at his stony expression. ‘It was your idea to offer this clever fiancée of yours a job. And, lucky for us, she says she’s already quit the other mob—’
Fiancée? Nora scooted forward on the couch. ‘Oh, but we’re n—’
Blake abruptly shifted his stance, a black-clad knee bumping her arm, upending her whisky glass in her lap. She jumped to her feet with a shriek, brushing at the sodden linen, which had sucked up the liquid like a thirsty alcoholic and now clung drunkenly to her legs.
‘What a waste of good Scotch,’ mourned Sir Prescott, picking up her empty glass.
‘I don’t think it’ll stain if you rinse it out immediately,’ murmured Blake and Nora froze as she recognised the words she had said to him on the first night they met. He took her elbow, propelling her to the door, barely giving her time to grab her bag. ‘Come on, you can use the bathroom in my private office.’
‘Good idea. Can’t have you going round smelling like a distillery,’ chipped in Sir Prescott helpfully, limping after them. ‘Tell you what—you go off with Blake and get cleaned up and I’ll round everyone up and open a few bottles of that champagne so we can properly toast your engagement when you come back. I’ll get Sandra to send out for some food, too, shall I, Blake? May as well go the whole hog. Perhaps even a cake—’
‘You!—’ Blake halted his Chairman with a disrespectful finger poked into his chest ‘—have done enough. Thank you, but I’ll take this from here.’
He slammed the door on Sir Prescott’s expression of injured innocence and hustled Nora back through the reception area, scowling at anyone who dared approach.
‘Why did you do that? What was he talking about?’ Nora burst out when she had been frogmarched into a luxurious blue and grey office which mirrored the layout of the one they had just left. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, don’t bother,’ she said impatiently, as he picked up the remote control from the desk to close the vertical blinds. ‘If I came up in that wretched glass box of yours without turning a hair, I’m hardly going to keel over now! I want to know what you’ve been saying to Sir Prescott, and why he thinks we’re engaged!’
‘Did you?’ He dropped the remote and spun around to study her.
‘Did I what?’ she asked distractedly, wrinkling her dainty nose as she lifted the saturated skirt away from her damp tights.
‘Handle the lift without panicking?’
She shrugged, trying not to be disarmed by the warmth of encouragement in his eyes. ‘I had other things on my mind,’ she said.
‘Like quitting your job? You’ve really left Maitlands?’ He slipped off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair.
‘They tried to suspend me, so I told my boss he could make it my period of notice,’ Nora said, her temper flaring all over again as she described the encounter. ‘Ruben was even talking about honey traps—’
‘Mmm, well, I do seem to recall at least one occasion when honey did feature rather prominently in our relationship,’ said Blake with unblushing calm. ‘Otherwise their investigation is going to be a waste of their time and money. Now, why don’t you take your skirt off and I’ll get my secretary to send it out to the one-hour laundry service. That wet patch is far too big to try and blot with a towel—’
