Sarah Fisher - The contract

Roderick Banyon laid a sheaf of paper on his desk in front of Emily Lawrence. "So, you can see," he said slowly, indicating the top sheet, "Peter's financial position left a great deal to be desired. I suppose all this involvement is because you expected to marry him?"

"Involvement? What involvement? I really don't know why you sent for me. But yes, we were engaged!"

"Quite." He sat back and rested his fingertips together in front of his lips. "Most unfortunate." His eyes were alight with something that Emily realised with growing unease was an expression of grim satisfaction.

"I'm not sure that I understand what you are trying to say, Mr Banyon," she said.

Roderick lifted his eyebrows. "Really, Miss Lawrence? You must be aware that before his death Peter made you a partner in his company?"

"Oh that, the partnership! Yes but it wasn't important: I'm not expecting anything from it. Something to do with saving tax."

"Oh, but is is important! Oh yes! His death leaves you responsible for his debt to us."

Emily felt the breath catch in her throat, her stomach contracted sharply. "That's impossible," she gasped. "I've never had anything to do with Peter's business."

Banyon shrugged. "That may well be the case, but as a partner – in the eyes of the law -" His voice faded as if the rest was self explanatory.

Emily felt her colour draining. "What about life insurance – his other business interests, surely they would cover what he owes you?" She was trying hard to take in what the accountant was telling her.

"No doubt, had Peter Howard lived, Miss Lawrence, this debt would have been recouped. Peter, unfortunately, gambled and lost – and now he won't have the chance to make good what he owes us." Banyon's tone was cool, matter of fact.

For the first time since Emily had arrived at the offices of Fielding and Johnson she felt genuinely uneasy. She moved her chair closer and looked at the first page of one of the files. The total was astonishing; telephone numbers.

"My God," she whispered. "There's no way I can pay this amount."

Banyon's expression didn't falter. "I've drawn up a schedule of repayments if you'd care to take a look." He passed a sheet of paper across the desk.

Emily had the distinct impression that he was enjoying her predicament. She ran her eyes down over the column of figures, then glanced up at him.

"That's more per month than I earn in a year. You must know that. I'm sorry, Mr Banyon." She hesitated; there was nothing more she could say. Even if she sold the house Peter had bought for her family, their flat, the car – it would realise nowhere near the figure this man was demanding. She was suddenly furious; how could Peter leave her in such a muddle? He'd always played the markets, wheeling and dealing since she'd known him, buying low, selling high. One complex deal linked in a chain to the next and the next. He'd said adding her name as a partner was to help with his tax – nothing more than a formality – and she had believed him.

Across the table Roderick Banyon was watching her face.

"I'm afraid," she said after some deliberation, "I'm in an impossible position. You must know Peter's assets. My parents are elderly and living in the house Peter bought for us."

There was a distinct glitter in Banyon's mahogany brown eyes. They reminded her of something feral and wolf-like; he was enjoying this. She folded her hands into her lap as her inquisitor leant forward a little.

"Perhaps we can come to some other arrangement," he said evenly. "More time -"

Emily raised her eyebrows, fighting to retain her composure. "Even if I had twenty years to pay I couldn't clear this debt, Mr Banyon."

The accountant got to his feet, the movement stealthy and deliberate. He nodded and then smiled. "Perhaps I can offer you an alternative," he said, in a voice barely above a whisper.

Emily sensed danger; a baited trap. She swallowed. "What did you have in mind?"

Banyon circled the desk. "Our company has many interests internationally: clubs, casinos, bars, hotels, a whole range of social and business services." If he expected her to speak Emily disappointed him; she had no idea where the conversation was leading. He continued undeterred. "Perhaps you would be prepared to work off the debt? Shall we say -" he glanced at the sheet of paper on his desk "- a year."

Emily snorted without thinking. "A year? I couldn't possibly earn that kind of money in a year."

The accountant swung round, his eyes greedily drinking her in, lingering on the outline of her breasts where they pressed against the soft fabric of her cotton blouse. His expression was appraising, the veneer of disinterest fading rapidly.

"Oh, I think you can, Miss Lawrence," he purred, moving closer, so close that Emily could smell his after-shave and below that the subtle musk of his body. "We have an establishment in the country, a rather select retreat where I'm sure we could find a place for you – an opening – an opportunity for you to free yourself from these unfortunate commitments." He glanced back at the pile of manila folders.

"What exactly are you suggesting?" she asked uneasily.

Banyon ran his finger along the curve of her throat, his touch proprietorial and cool. "A way out," he murmured, "a simple business arrangement. A contract."

"A contract? I don't understand. I've just said I can't pay you."

Banyon smiled, his fingers still resting on her throat, stroking the throbbing pulse just beneath the skin. "You misunderstand me, this would be a contract of service – special service!"

Emily's fists tightened in her lap. "And if I agree?" she said softly.

Banyon let his fingers move lower, grazing the puckered outline of her nipple. "The debt is cleared, your parents' house is safe and you -" he smiled, glittering shards of amusement flashing in his eyes "- you, my dear, have an experience that will change your life forever."

Emily didn't trust herself to speak; she understood the implication in Banyon's offer very well. She certainly wouldn't be going to a country retreat as a secretary.

"I accept."

Had she said that? She must have done. But then anything had to be better than her mother being made homeless.

Banyon smiled wolfishly. "I thought you might." He indicated the files on the desk. "These documents will be shredded as soon as you've signed the contract. You may watch me destroy them." He opened the filing cabinet and took out a sheet of paper.

"What am I agreeing to?" asked Emily uneasily, glancing at the closely typed lines of print. She regretted it already, but she would not back out now.

Banyon's smile narrowed. "Absolutely everything," he said steadily, handing her the pen. "The minute you sign you are our property for a year."

Emily felt a flood of fear as she read the conditions.

"May I ring my parents to say I've got a job and have to go abroad immediately?"

"Of course."

She made her phone call and then, with a confidence she was far from feeling, signed the contract she feared so much.

Banyon gathered up Peter Howard's files from his desk and switched on the shredding machine.

"Right," he said, as soon as they had been destroyed, "now I would like you to undress."

Behind the two-way mirror over-looking Roderick Banyon's office in the huge headquarters block that the great multi-national company owned, the only two directors of Fielding and Johnson who really mattered watched the proceedings with intense interest.

Max Fielding poured himself a large scotch.

"Easier than we thought."

Johnson nodded. "With Emily Lawrence at Deuvar we'll be able to flush Peter Howard out of the woodwork."