Alison Fraser - The Boss's Secret Mistress

Tory realised he was joking but wondered, nonetheless, if that was how she seemed to him. Dull. What an indictment.

It put her on the defensive. ‘I’m not the one travelling down to London for a business meeting on a Saturday.’

‘Did I say business?’ He raised a dark brow.

Tory frowned up at him. He had, hadn’t he?

He shook his head, adding, ‘No, this one’s strictly personal.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Tory denied any intention to pry.

But he continued, ‘In a way, it involves you. I’m having dinner with the woman I was dating until recently…a farewell dinner,’ he stressed.

Tory met his eyes briefly, then looked away once more. There was nothing subtle about his interest in her.

‘This really is none of my business, Mr Ryecart,’ she replied on an officious note.

‘Not now, maybe—’ he got to his feet ‘—but who knows what the future might hold?’

He afforded her another smile. Perfect white teeth in a tanned face. Too handsome for anyone else’s good.

Tory tried again. ‘I shouldn’t think we’ll meet very often, Mr Ryecart,’ she said repressively, ‘in view of your considerably senior position, but I’m sure I’ll endeavour to be polite when we do.’

This time her message couldn’t be missed. ‘In short, you’d like me to take a hike.’

Tory’s nails curled into her palms. The man had no idea of the conventions that governed normal conversation.

‘I didn’t say that,’ she replied, through gritted teeth. ‘I was just pointing out—’

‘That you’d touch your forelock but nothing else,’ he summed up with breath-taking accuracy.

Tory felt a curious desire to hit him. It took a huge effort to stop herself, to remind herself he was her boss.

He held up a pacifying hand, having clearly read her thoughts. He might be brash, but he wasn’t stupid.

‘Tell you what, let’s agree to dispense with the forelock-tugging, too,’ he suggested and finally walked towards the door.

Tory’s heart sank. What did that mean?

‘Mr Ryecart—’ she called after him.

He turned, his expression now remote. Had he already dispensed with her, altogether?

She didn’t intend waiting to find out. She asked point-blank, ‘Should I be looking for another job?’

‘What?’ Such an idea had obviously been far from his mind. He considered it briefly before answering, ‘If you’re asking me will Eastwich survive, then I don’t know that yet. It’s no secret that it’s operating at a loss, but I wouldn’t have bought it if I didn’t feel turn-around was viable.’

It was a straight, businesslike response that left Tory feeling decidedly silly. She had imagined rejecting Lucas Ryecart might be a sackable offence but obviously he didn’t work that way.

‘That isn’t what you meant, is it?’ He read her changing expression.

‘No,’ Tory admitted reluctantly. ‘I thought…’

‘That I’d fire you for not responding to my advances,’ he concluded for himself, and now displeasure thinned his sensual mouth. ‘God, you have a low opinion of me…or is it all men?’

Tory bit on her lip before muttering, ‘I—I…if I misjudged you—’

‘In spades,’ he confirmed. ‘I may be the loud, overbearing American you’ve already written me off as—’

‘That’s not—’ Tory tried to deny it.

He overrode her. ‘And I may let what’s in my pants overrule good sense occasionally,’ he continued crudely, ‘but desperate I’m not, or vindictive. If you leave Eastwich, it won’t be on my account.’

Tory wanted the ground to swallow her up. She started to say, ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—’ and was left talking to thin air.

Lucas Ryecart might not be vindictive but he had a temper. She experienced its full force as the door slammed hard behind him.

And that’s me told, she thought, feeling wrung out and foolish, and wishing she’d kept her mouth shut.

He’d been flirting with her. Nothing more. Perhaps he flirted with all personable women under the assumption that most would enjoy it. He’d be right, too. Most would.

They’d know how to take Lucas Ryecart, realise that anyone that handsome, and rich, and successful, would scarcely be interested in ordinary mortals. They’d be slightly flattered by his appreciative gaze, a little charmed by his slow, easy smile, but they certainly wouldn’t be crazy enough to take him seriously.

She glanced out of the window in time to see him striding across the car park. She didn’t worry that he’d look up. She was already forgotten.

She watched him get into a dark green four-by-four. It was a surprisingly unflash vehicle. She’d have expected him to drive something fast and conspicuous—a low-slung sports car, perhaps. But what did she really know about Lucas Ryecart? Next to nothing.

She tried to remember what Charlie, her ex-fiancé, had said. He hadn’t talked much of his dead sister but he’d mentioned her husband a few times. He’d obviously admired the older man who’d spent his early career reporting from the trouble spots of the world. Charlie’s mother had also alluded to her American son-in-law with some fondness and Tory had formed various images: faithful husband, dedicated journalist, fine human being.

None fitted the Lucas Ryecart she’d met, but then it had been years since Jessica Wainwright’s death and time changed everybody. It had certainly changed his circumstances if Eastwich was only one of the television companies he owned. He was also no longer the marrying kind, a fact he’d made clear. Arguably, his directness was a virtue, but if he had any other noble character traits Tory had missed them.

Time had changed Tory, too. Or was it her current lifestyle? All work and no play, as he’d said. Making her dull, stupid even, unable to laugh off a man’s interest without sounding like prude of the year.

Tory felt like kicking herself. And Alex. And Lucas Ryecart. She settled for kicking her waste bin and didn’t hang around to tidy up the mess she made.

She took the American’s advice and spent the afternoon at the Anglian Country Club, a favourite haunt for young professionals. For two hours she windsurfed across the man-made lake, a skill she’d acquired on her first foreign holiday. It was her main form of relaxation, strenuous though it could be, and she was now more than competent.

Sometimes she took a lesson with Steve, the resident coach. About her age, he had a law degree but had never practised, preferring to spend his life windsurfing. They had chatted occasionally and once gone for a drink in the club but nothing more. Today he helped her put away her equipment and asked casually if she had plans for the evening. She shook her head and he proposed going for something to eat in town.

Normally Tory would have politely turned him down, but Lucas Ryecart’s image loomed, and she said, ‘Why not?’

Tory drove them in her car and they went to an Italian restaurant. They talked about windsurfing, then music and the colleges they’d attended. Steve was easy enough company.

They went on to a pub and met some of his friends, a mixed crowd of men and women. Tory stuck to orange juice, and, although declining a party invitation, agreed to drive them there.

When the rest had piled out of her car, Steve surprised her with a kiss on the lips. It was quite pleasurable, but hardly earth-moving and another man’s image intruded when she closed her eyes. She broke off the kiss before it turned intimate.

Steve got the message. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to go home to my place?’ he asked, more in hope than expectation.

‘No, thanks all the same.’ She gave him an amiable smile and her refusal was accepted in the same spirit.