Cathy Williams - Powerful Boss, Prim Miss Jones

He moved with the stealthy, economical grace of a tiger, and she very nearly squeaked with dismay when he finally paused to stand directly in front of her.

‘Now the interview begins. My godfather might be a pushover, but believe me when I tell you that I’m not. Follow me.’ He walked away, taking it as a given that she would instantly fall in line, which she did.

‘Right.’ He turned to face her when they eventually made it to the sitting room, another impressive room with floor-to-ceiling drapes on one wall and on the other a massive fireplace. ‘Sit.’

‘I wish you’d stop giving orders, Mr…Mr…?’

‘Andreas. Keep it firmly planted at the back of your mind.’

‘I’m happy to answer your questions.’ Within reason, Elizabeth thought with a guilty twinge. ‘I haven’t come here to cause any trouble.’

‘Good. Then we should get along just swimmingly. If, however, I discover that you’re not what you make yourself out to be, then let me give you every assurance that I will personally see to it that you’re strung up and left to dry.’

‘That’s a horrible thing to say.’

‘Consider me a horrible person.’

‘Is that how you’ve dealt with all the people who have applied for this job? By threatening them?’

‘All the people who have applied for this job have come down the normal route. They’ve been vetted to within an inch of their lives by the agency, and they’ve all had a bucket load of credentials and references to their name. You, on the other hand, swan in here via a friend of a friend of a friend, I’m led to believe. You have no CV, and I’m betting that you’re pretty low on the credential-and-reference front as well, but feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.’

Elizabeth had never met a man like this before. To look at, he was spectacular. Everything about him demanded attention, from the physical perfection of his body to the beautiful contours of his harsh face. He was someone who would be noticed in any crowd, anywhere, and she wondered if that was the source of his arrogance. A man like him, accustomed to snapping his fingers and giving orders, would have no time for common courtesy. Right now he was watching her narrowly and she decided that she really, really disliked him.

But he wasn’t going to scare her away. It had taken a lot to bring her to this house in the first place; now that she had unexpectedly been offered an opening, she wasn’t going to let herself be cowed into leaving.

‘Well?’ Andreas studied her down-bent head. ‘Let’s talk about the credentials. Any?’ He strode forward, casting a shadow as he towered over her before sitting down on the sofa next to her.

‘I’m a qualified secretary,’ Elizabeth began, clearing her throat. She’d almost preferred it when he was looming. ‘And my boss, Mr Riggs, would provide a very good reference for me.’

‘And your job is where, exactly?’

‘In West London.’

‘Name of company?’

Elizabeth nervously began telling him about what she did at Riggs and Son, which was a small solicitor’s office close to the airport, and Andreas held up an imperious hand to halt her in mid-sentence.

‘I don’t need a complete run-down on the history of the company, and I care even less about Mr Riggs senior retiring. Why would you leave an office job to come and work as a nursemaid to an elderly man?’

It was a very good question and one which Elizabeth was not prepared to answer. However, stuck in the position of having to say something, she mumbled indistinctly about wanting a change.

‘Speak up,’ Andreas demanded. ‘I can’t hear a word you’re saying.’

‘That’s because you’re making me nervous!’

‘Good. Being nervous around me works. Now, enunciate carefully and tell me what’s in it for you, taking this post.’

‘I…I’m good at looking after people.’ She raised her eyes hesitantly to Andreas; he frowned and pushed aside the distracting notion that they were the purest, clearest green he had ever seen. ‘I looked after my mum for two years before she died, and I guess some people would find that a chore, but it never bothered me. I liked looking after her. It only seems fair that old people should be taken good care of when they’re poorly, and I’m happy doing that.’

‘Which beggars the question—why didn’t you become a nurse if your Florence Nightingale instincts are so highly developed?’

Andreas’s brilliant dark eyes were making her feel disoriented. She knew that, whatever impression she was managing to give, it was the wrong one. She could barely keep still and her face was burning.

‘Come on, now, Miss Jones!’ Andreas delivered impatiently. ‘Get with the program. You’re being interviewed, but you can barely string a few sentences together. How am I to think that you’re going to be able to handle working alongside my godfather? He might be in a wheelchair, but his intellect is in full, working order. Can you convince me that you’ll be able to hold your own when you can barely manage to answer a few simple questions? His food needs to be carefully supervised, he needs exercise on a regular, daily basis. He enjoys neither of those restraints and is very happy to dig his heels in and refuse to cooperate. Don’t you think that he’ll be able to run rings around a timid little mouse like yourself? In fact, isn’t it all too likely that that’s the very reason he’s so keen on getting you on board?’

Elizabeth felt her temper rise at his flagrant insult. Timid little mouse? How dared he just sit there and say whatever he wanted in that lazy, derisive voice of his when he didn’t know her?

‘Furthermore, you might have won James over by batting those eyelashes of yours and playing the sweet little innocent, but none of that washes with me. As far as I am concerned, you’re starting at the baseline point of potential gold-digger.’

‘You have no right to accuse me of—’

‘I have every right. I’m looking out for my godfather’s interests, and from where I’m sitting they don’t lie with someone who’s walked off the streets with nothing more to her name than a sympathetic expression and a convincing line in blushing.’

Elizabeth summoned up every ounce of courage she possessed and stood up, wishing she had a more commanding height instead of being a mere five-foot three-inches. ‘I…I don’t have to listen to you. I’m not after your godfather’s money. I know you’ve probably seen loads of really qualified people, but, if Mr Greystone is willing to give me a chance, then I think you should be too.’

‘Or else what?’

Elizabeth had no comeback to that sharply spoken question. Her mother had died only recently and she had been allowed extended compassionate-leave from her company, time she had planned to use by venturing down to Somerset so that she could get to meet James Greystone. She had not expected to find him in need of a carer but, now that she had, now that she had been given the chance of actually working for him, the thought of seeing the opportunity snatched out of her hands by the man in front of her filled her with dismay.

‘I don’t know. Nothing.’ Her shoulders drooped in defeat and she stared down at her sandals, wondering whether he had already mentally added ‘drab, boring dresser’ to his ‘timid, little mouse’ description of her.

‘How did your mother die? She must have been relatively young.’

The change of subject startled her, and Elizabeth looked at him in confusion.

‘It’s not a trick question, Elizabeth,’ Andreas said drily. ‘So you don’t have to stand there weighing up an appropriate response. Just try and answer the question without looking as though you’re being made to walk on a bed of nails.’