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Charles Arnold had given her hell. He had fabricated a complaint against her. He had harassed and hounded her, belittled and demeaned her, persecuted her to the limits of endurance.
The stranger had told her not to do it.
She ignored the order.
Amanda’s need to even the score between herself and Charles Arnold was a stronger force.
She pressed the Enter key.
She turned to face Charles Arnold directly, her gaze level, her voice level, her manner civil and courteous, her bearing reserved, dignified and aloof.
‘You wanted these figures, sir,’ she said evenly. ‘For your promotion, sir.’
‘You dumb stupid blonde bitch!’ Charles Arnold snorted like a chained killer dog deprived of its prey.
‘I’m sorry I’m a dumb stupid blonde bitch, sir,’ she said, taking intense pride in appearing totally unruffled. There was no way Charles Arnold could ever hurt her again. She had given him the coup de grâce. There would be no festering wounds left over from this encounter. She would not spend any more nights blistering over her resentments at his petty tyranny.
She turned slowly towards the stranger and caught the look in his eyes. It took her breath a
way. She had seen desire before in men’s eyes. Occasionally she had seen lust. She had never before confronted a message of such blazing conviction. I want you, his eyes said. I’ll have you. And what I have I keep.
She saw it, felt it, yet it was over in an instant. A shutter snapped closed. The blaze was gone, replaced by impenetrable darkness.
The muscles of her stomach clenched. Her thighs tightened in response. Her eyelids dropped fractionally as his own had done previously, but her facade of cool composure did not falter.
The stranger and Mr Kozim ignored every word uttered by Charles Arnold. Like water off a duck’s back, Amanda thought. Xa Shiraq’s hatchet man and his secretary had probably arranged this scene long before it was enacted.
She felt no sympathy for Charles Arnold. After his persecution of her, he deserved none. She was relieved at his removal from the staff.
The general manager made his entrance, coming in behind the front desk to line up beside his chief assistant and lend authoritative support. ‘What is the problem?’ he demanded in frowning inquiry.
‘Did you employ this man?’ Mr Kozim asked, pointing at Charles Arnold.
‘I most certainly did,’ the manager replied happily.
‘Here is an official letter, relieving you of your position and responsibilities within the Oasis chain,’ Mr Kozim said affably. He reached inside his briefcase, scanned the contents of a letter, and passed it to the general manager. ‘You will note it is signed by Jebel Haffa,’ Mr Kozim added idly.
‘You...you can’t do this...’ The words stuttered out.
‘It’s done,’ the voice of the stranger cut in peremptorily.
‘But you have no senior management left...you’ll need us.’
‘It has been taken care of. Miss Buchanan...’ His gaze swung to her.
Amanda was astonished. ‘You know my name.’
‘I know everything,’ he said with becoming modesty, ‘that is important to me.’
Amanda pulled herself together. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said with becoming deference. ‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Miss Buchanan, there is a letter for you.’ The stranger nodded to Mr Kozim whose hand dived into the attaché case.
Amanda’s heart sank. The fabricated complaint had served its purpose. Her future plans were shattered, her goals more unattainable than ever.
She noted the triumphant smirk on Charles Arnold’s face. Despite his immense chagrin at his own predicament, nothing diluted his pleasure in bringing someone else down.
She forced herself to take the letter. Her hands felt nerveless, divorced from her body. The words printed on the page were scrambled and incomprehensible. She concentrated her attention, and deciphered what was written.
