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'Oh, shut up!' she hissed. 'And keep your voice down!' She fumbled in her bag, found a comb and tidied her hair, fighting to stop her hands shaking. No man had ever had such a violent effect on her; she couldn't understand it.
Gil Martell drew back the curtain and Caro picked up the black dress and walked out of the cubicle without looking at him. The assistant on duty stared avidly as Caro handed her the black dress, muttering that she didn't want it. How much
of what went on in the cubicle had the other girl overheard? It was so embarrassing— Caro couldn't wait to get away; she felt as if everyone around there were watching her and Gil and whispering.
They took the lift up to his office, neither of them speaking. His secretary gave Caro a frigid, hostile look as they walked past her desk.
'You've had several urgent calls, sir,' she said to Gil. 'I've left a note of them on your pad.'
He nodded briskly. 'Thank you. Hold all calls for the moment, will you, however urgent.'
He closed the door and walked across his own office to his desk, sank into the chair and gestured to Caro to take the seat on the other side. She sat down, crossing her long legs, and he watched the movement far too closely.
'Well? What can I do for you?' he asked, and he used the words deliberately—it was another tease, one she resented, and she glared at him.
'I'm tired of playing games--- '
'I'm not,' he purred.
'I am not flirting with you, Mr Martell!' she flared up, very flushed.
He pointedly glanced at his watch. 'Well, whatever you're doing, Miss Ramsgate, hurry up—because I'm a very busy man.'
'Then stop having fun at my expense,' Caro snapped. 'Slop pretending you don't know why I'm here. You're well aware why I've been ringing you. Until we see the hooks, we can't proceed with this negotiation. I want you to let me and my team spend a few days here going over the accounts with your people.'
'Why should I?' he asked tersely, the amusement disappearing from his dark eyes.
'Because if you don't do it voluntarily, your grand-mother will make you hand over the books by legal means,' Caro threatened, losing her temper, and then Wished she hadn't said that because she had no authority to threaten him with any such thing. If he told his grandmother what she had said to him, Lady Westbrook might pull out of the negotiations. She lowered her eyes, while watching him uneasily through her lashes, and saw his features tighten, his mouth a stiff pale line, his eyes hard.
There was a long silence, then he said in an expressionless voice, 'Very well, the books will be made available to you from tomorrow morning at nine o'clock, but they must not leave this building. I will see to it that office space is free for you and your team to use, and you will go over the books here, without removing them or copying them or in any way making notes from them. Is that understood?'
'Yes.' She understood. He was giving in because he thought he had no option; but he was not going to make it easy for her, or the accountants she brought with her. 'You can trust me to keep my word,' she added coolly.
Gil's eyes flicked contemptuously to her. 'Trust you? Do you think I'm that stupid? Oh, no, Miss Ramsgate, I don't trust either you or your piranha of a father— which is why I am going to have you right here, in this office, under my eyes, while you're working on my accounts. I'll have a desk moved in; telephones, computers, whatever you need to do your job. But I'll be here, too, watching you, every minute of the day and night.'
Caro stared at him, feeling oddly under threat. She did not know if she could stand the ordeal of spending that much time alone in here with Gil Martell.
CHAPTER FOUR
The first morning, Caro didn't see much of Gil, as it turned out, because he was out of the office on his usual tour of the store to talk to the various supervisors and floor managers and check on any problems or worries they had. His secretary silently cleared his desk of every .nap of paper, when he had gone, locking most of the material into his desk or a filing cabinet, while Caro drily watched her through her lashes. The other woman didn't say anything, but she didn't need to—she was making it all too plain that she did not trust Caro an inch.
Caro and her team spent that morning talking to the store's accounts manager, who treated them remotely, with reluctance, as if they were germs he might catch. His manner to Caro was lofty, slightly incredulous—his eyes made it clear that he couldn't believe she was any good at her job; she was too young, for one thing, and, for another, she was a woman. He, of course, was middle-aged, a short, stout man with a little black moustache above his prim lips. Caro had met men like him all her working life, men who could not believe she hid brains and who suspected she owed her job to her father. Men like Gil Martell, for instance.
Once Caro had got everything she wanted from him, she coolly dismissed him, and she and her team settled down to extract every last ounce of information from the accounts. She could learn all about a company in an amazingly short time, deduce from what she saw what was being kept hidden and focus on all the problem areas and loss-making departments. She knew it wouldn't take her long to draw up a detailed profile of the company.
No doubt everyone knew, by now, that the store might be about to change hands, and the staff must be very worried. People always were when they heard of a change of ownership. They felt their jobs might be threatened, and Caro could understand their anxieties; she sympathised with them, although she couldn't say so without disloyalty to her father. So she just did her own job, although she often wondered when her father would at last be satisfied and stop his empire-building.
When Gil Martell did arrive that morning it was a brief visit before lunch, and he was polite and distant, which suited Caro. She preferred not to have him around while she did her job.
That first day was typical of the days which followed. She realised very quickly that Gil was not the type of managing director who sat in his office all day, or who delegated. He was out of his office as much as he was in it, and he certainly both worked hard and did not delegate. She soon began to know his routine, and, of course, she set up a routine of her own.
At noon each day, her staff went to lunch, but Caro stayed at work. She brought food with her: a light snack, a tub of cottage cheese, perhaps, some rye crispbreads and an apple, and a bottle of sparkling mineral water. Gil Martell usually went out to lunch; she gathered from what she overheard that he lunched important clients, suppliers, importers.
Around the fourth day, Gil Martell came back while she was in the middle of her snack. 'Is that all you're having for lunch?' he enquired, inspecting the remains of her meal. 'You can use the staff canteen if you want to; they do a very good meal.'
'I prefer to bring my own, thanks.'
'Suit yourself.' He shrugged.
