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From her experiences already that morning Harriet knew him to be right but she was not in a mood to be sweet and co-operative. ‘Only for a few days. Once everyone gets over the shock they’ll find someone else to gossip about—’
‘Don’t you believe it. It’s certainly going to take me more than a few days. I liked you the way you were,’ he tacked on with the disgruntled air of a sulky boy.
Yes, because you could walk all over me without any hint of opposition, thought Harriet, but she said calmly, ‘Well, I didn’t. And talking of the importance of appearances—don’t you think you’d better freshen up before your first appointment?’
‘Oh, hell, is that the time?’ He looked down at his watch, and was freshly aghast at the patchy brown stains blotching his shirt-front. ‘I suppose I’m going to have to—’
Harriet had already whipped an almost identical white shirt, beautifully pressed, from the closet by the door. She handed it to him wordlessly, along with a fresh tie.
He gave her a winning smile as he took them. ‘Thanks, Harry; you always come up trumps in a tight corner.’
‘Harriet,’ she corrected, smiling back at him. He needn’t think that he could manipulate her with his approval. She was no longer a pathetic creature who depended on others to validate her actions. She was a freethinking and free-spirited woman.
‘Oh, right…Harriet.’ Like Barbara, he was unnerved by the suggestion of mischief in her face and the dimple that suddenly flirted in her cheek. Since when had his prim Miss Smith had dimples?
It was an indication of Brian Jessop’s distraction that he stripped off his shirt and tie on the spot rather than retreating to the small bathroom attached to the office. He swore as he discovered that he’d forgotten to undo his cuff-links, struggling for a moment in the entangling sleeves, managing to extricate one hand before being defeated by his own impatience.
‘You’re going to tear it if you carry on like that. Here, let me,’ Harriet offered boldly. A small, neat hand steadied his wrist as her slender fingers laboriously picked at the tiny piece of material that had somehow become wedged into the hinge of the cuff-link. Thank goodness for the miracle of fake fingernails, she thought wryly as she wielded her red-painted talons like tweezers. She only hoped that she would still be able to type as easily with her extended digits!
‘You’re always so willing to pitch in when you’re needed, Harriet,’ he said encouragingly to her bent head. ‘That’s another reason you rank so high in Marcus’s approval.’
Translation: you’re incapable of saying no.
‘No, Brian, I’m not going home to change,’ she took pleasure in firmly stating. ‘Nor am I going to skulk around here as if I’m guilty of a crime. The only way you’re going to get me to leave is to fire me. In which case I shall sue you for wrongful dismissal.’
‘What ever happened to your famous rule about respect for authority?’ he grouched. ‘Shouldn’t you be calling me Mr Jessop and briskly obeying my every command…?’
&n
bsp; ‘Somehow you don’t-seem so very authoritative now I’ve seen you half-naked,’ she replied, flicking him a pert look. To her surprise and amusement her sophisticated boss flushed and squirmed in discomfort.
‘Good God, Harriet, don’t say things like that. People might get the wrong idea…’
‘Stop panicking,’ she dared to tease as she finally worked the recalcitrant cuff-link free and watched him hurriedly shoulder himself into his clean shirt. ‘You’re letting your imagination run away with you. I’m sure Mr Fox isn’t as easily shockable as you seem to think. Being a rampant perfectionist doesn’t make him a perfect human being himself, you know—more likely the exact opposite. He’s probably riddled with insecurities behind that poker-face. He’s more likely to go off the deep end at the idea of being deceived than he is at some minor infringement of office etiquette—’
‘A point of view with which I thoroughly concur.’
The silky-smooth observation made them both jump. They spun around to stare in dismay at the door which had opened soundlessly behind them.
Marcus Fox stood squarely in the doorway, one hand thrust casually into his pocket, his cool blue eyes studying Brian Jessop’s frantic attempts to button his gaping shirt and simultaneously thrust the crisp white tails into the top of his trousers.
Harriet’s bold confidence wavered. She had a sinking feeling that her fabulous plan to revolutionise herself was just about to receive its first set-back.
CHAPTER THREE
‘I APOLOGIZE for eavesdropping,’ said Marcus Fox in a singularly unapologetic tone. ‘You were both so absorbed in your…discussion that you obviously didn’t hear me knock.’
The subtle emphasis was accompanied by an interrogative lift of thick black brows, which nearly caused Brian Jessop to strangle himself as he stepped forward, urgently knotting his tie on top of his unbuttoned collar.
Harriet knew that look well. It was capable of making even the purest of innocents feel mired in guilt. She struggled to control her instinctive blush, grateful that her boss’s anxious movement had blocked her off from the laser-like blue gaze. She mentally made herself as small as she could behind his back.
One brief glimpse of Mr Fox’s expression had been enough to justify her unease. He had looked entirely too self-satisfied for a man supposedly confronting the unexpected. If they hadn’t heard him knock it was because he hadn’t knocked. He had fully intended to barge in on whatever was happening inside Brian’s office. Something in the telephone conversation had alerted his curiosity and with his customary decisiveness he had shot down to investigate.
‘Uh—Marcus—good heavens! I—we—this isn’t what you might think…’ Brian Jessop’s rushed protest died, sounding like the perfect cliché of guilt, even to Harriet’s sympathetic ears.
She didn’t blame him for feeling flustered. Marcus Fox’s appearance often had the effect of making people feel at a disadvantage. He was only a shade over six feet in height but to Harriet he had always seemed overwhelmingly large. Perhaps it was the breadth of his shoulders and the evident toughness of the lean-hipped, long-legged body, but more likely it was his sheer personal presence. Where other men relied on words or macho theatrics to dominate, Marcus Fox could effectively control a meeting with his silences.
And yet his toughness was to a certain extent an illusion. His stern face with its bold nose, square mouth and determined chin, and the perpetual threatening frown created by thick, straight brows over hooded eyes, presented an image that was forbiddingly harsh, but over the years Harriet had decided that Mr Fox was one of the most subtly refined men that she had ever encountered. ‘One of nature’s gentlemen’, as Clare Broadbent was wont to boast discreetly.
