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Correctly interpreting her boss’s rolling eyes, Harriet folded her hands meekly in front of her and stonewalled in her best secretary-speak. ‘Yes, of course, Mr Fox. But there are one or two essentials I need to organise with Mr Jessop if I’m going to be away, so perhaps I could follow you up in a few minutes…?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ He denied her request smoothly. ‘I have a meeting shortly which is going to require my full attention and I need to have this thing settled before I go in. You can resume your cosy little tête-à-tête with Brian later.’
It was evident that he had no intention of allowing them to confer alone and, with a helpless glance at Brian Jessop’s resigned face, Harriet reluctantly allowed herself to be shepherded through to the outer office.
She paused beside her desk to pick up her handbag and listened sourly to Marcus Fox charm a flustered Barbara with the grave assurance that he was sure she’d cope superbly in her senior’s absence.
Then followed the embarrassment of being marched back through the main office at a speed that threatened to have her falling flat on her face. What price her image of slinky sophistication now? Harriet felt like a naughty schoolgirl being dragged off to detention by a stem-faced headmaster in front of the whole school. Not that she knew what that felt like—in school she had never done anything to merit public chastisement.
A wobbly red heel twisted and Harriet stumbled and was brought up by a large hand shooting out to cup her elbow. It remained there, hard and disconcertingly
warm through the thin silk of her jacket, distracting her from the hush of astonishment that marked their brisk passage across the room.
Oh, well, this was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? Drama? Excitement? New experiences with which to colour the depressingly blank canvas of her life? Perhaps this special project of Mr Fox’s would be something that she could fling herself into with wild enthusiasm, a chance to extend herself professionally, to discover the true extent of her unrealised potential.
As they reached the lift the doors opened and Michael Fleet sauntered out, reading a sheaf of computer printouts. He grinned when he saw Harriet.
‘Hey, babe, long time no see.’ He winked as he strolled past them, then turned to walk backwards down the hall as he continued brashly, ‘Listen, about that date we made earlier…I just found out I have an appointment this evening. How about if I pick you up an hour later and we leave dinner until after the show? Then I thought we could go on to Lizzie’s.’
‘Oh, y-yes, sure…fine,’ was all Harriet had a chance to stammer as she was steered forcefully into the lift. For one cowardly moment she had been relieved by the thought that Michael had changed his mind and was trying to cry off. Instead he was going to extend their evening by taking her to the city’s hottest new nightclub.
‘Great. See you at seven-thirty, then…’
As the doors began to close, the bone-tingling grip dropped away from her elbow. Harriet knew that Marcus Fox was staring at her profile but she resolutely refused to look at him.
Babe?
Michael thought she was a babe? She tried to feel flattered but she suspected that a babe was no classier than a bimbo. Or maybe he had called her that because he had forgotten her Christian name. Given the number of women he dated it was quite likely!
‘You’re going out with Michael Fleet?’
The enquiry seemed perfectly polite but the hint of incredulity in the deep voice made Harriet stiffen.
‘Yes.’
‘Have you dated before?’ He pressed the button for the top floor.
Primed for an insult by the rage that simmered just below the surface of her bright, new façade, Harriet jerked her chin around to glare at him.
‘Of course I’ve dated. I’m perfectly normal in that respect,’ she exploded. ‘I’ve gone out with lots of men. Did you think I used to sit at home every night doing my knitting?’ It had been reading rather than knitting, but, still, her words held the power of literal truth.
There was a small pause.
‘I meant have you been on a date with Michael before,’ he said gently.
‘Oh!’ Harriet blushed with mortification, aware of how telling her defensive outburst must have been to his shrewd intelligence. ‘No,’ she admitted in a small, stifled voice.
‘And he asked you out for the first time…this morning?’ he probed delicately.
It was none of his business and Harriet longed to tell him so, but she had already made enough of a fool of herself by overreacting to an innocuous question.
‘Yes. In the lift, on my way up to work.’ The gratuitous information quivered with defiance.
‘I see.’
No, he didn’t, Harriet thought resentfully. How could he? He didn’t know what was going on inside her. She watched his big body shift, as if accepting an invisible burden, his shoulders flexing as he flicked open the jacket of his elegant suit and thrust his hand into his trouser pocket. She nibbled her lip nervously as it struck her that his casual stance was out of character for a man whose body language was usually as formal and unrevealing as his attire.
Marcus Fox was an orderly man, too self-controlled ever to fidget or slouch around with his hands in his pockets. In the business arena he wore his identically tailored dark suits and white shirts like armour, and wielded his cool detachment like a weapon. He didn’t engage in the kind of idle personal chit-chat that he was indulging in now, not without a precise purpose, anyhow. He wasn’t prone to impulse. When presented with a problem he carefully pondered all sides before taking action, and once he had exercised his cautious judgement he never deviated from his decision.
