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‘Tell me,’ he ordered.
‘I’m not obliged to tell you anything about my personal life,’ I mumbled, and thought: I’m looking down at the floor! Why the hell am I looking down? I’m a strong, independent woman! ‘That’s not part of the job description of a secretary.’
‘It’s also not part of the job description of a secretary to tour the hotels of London in a dress and with a sack full of onions at the ready, but you did it anyway. Tell me. Now!’
I stayed silent.
‘If you will not tell me, I’ll deduct the time we spend arguing from your wages.’
I gasped. That was a low blow.
Well… maybe I could just tell him about me, personally. I couldn’t tell him about Ella, of course. That wasn’t my secret to share. There was only one thing left to tell. I took a deep breath.
‘Well…’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m being pursued by a man.’
‘What?’ With three long strides, Rikkard Ambrose was at my desk and had grabbed hold of my hands. Startled, my eyes flew up to look at him.
Hey! He was supposed to be calm and immovable as granite! I wouldn’t have thought him capable of an emotion such as this. True, his face still was as impassive as ever, but his eyes… His dark eyes were emitting sparks of fury.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?’ he demanded.
‘Why should I? It was none of your business!’
I tried to free my hands from his grip. It felt disturbing, having him hold my hands in his strong grasp after the episode in his personal powder room. I tried to shove that from my mind and concentrate on the moment.
‘None of my business?’ he repeated, coldly. ‘A man has been chasing you through London, and it’s none of my business? Tell me, is he connected with Simmons? What did he want? Did he mention the file or threaten to harm you? How far did he pursue you? Was he on foot or on horseback? How did you escape?’
It all clicked into place then: his reaction, the grip of his fingers on mine, even the cold fire in his eyes. I almost started to laugh. Almost.
‘Err… Mr Ambrose? When I said he’s “pursuing” me, I meant he wants to marry me.’
Mr Ambrose’s grip on my hand slackened, and he blinked.
‘What?’
‘He’s trying to get me as his wife, not chasing me through town with a knife in his hand.’
‘Oh.’ There was a pause. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Am I sure?’ I glared up at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m sure! Even I know the difference between a bouquet of flowers and a butcher’s knife!’
‘Err… of course you do. Well, that’s good to hear. That’s really…’
I stared at his face. A muscle somewhere in his cheekbone twitched, and his eyes went from side to side as if looking for an escape. Dear me. Had I managed to get Mr Rikkard Ambrose flustered?
Suddenly, an unpleasant thought struck me.
‘How come the first thing you thought of when I said I was being “pursued by a man” was that somebody was chasing me to get information out of me about you?’
‘Well, um…’
‘Do you think I’m that uninteresting? Do you think I’m a shrivelled old hag, that I could only attract men who want to stab me, not ones that want to marry me?’ As hard as I could, I tugged at my hands to free them from his grasp - but his fingers were too strong. ‘How dare you! Do you really think that I am that ugly?’
‘Of course not,’ he snapped, not looking at my face, which was good, because my glare would have burned holes into him. I was so angry with him, I would have slapped him if the thought of my pay cheque hadn’t stayed my hand. ‘Of course not, Miss Linton, you’re l
