CATHY WILLIAMS - Sleeping With The Boss

‘Not at all,’ she said, gathering herself together.

‘You never told me what you did on that holiday of yours. Something obviously happened. You’re not your usual self. What was it? Did you meet a man?’ He smiled as though amused at the thought of that. ‘What was he like? Do you realise that I know very little about your private life? Considering the length of time you’ve been working for me?’

‘Yes.’ And that’s just the way I’d like it to stay, her voice implied.

‘I hope you’re not thinking of deserting me to get married and have babies.’

Alice winced. The prospect of that couldn’t have been further from reality. Marriage? Children? She had buried any such thoughts a long time ago. It seemed like decades ago.

‘You’ve never struck me as the sort of girl who wants to rush into all that,’ he continued musingly, not bothering to wait for her reply. His grey eyes held a question, one she refused to answer. None of this had anything to do with him.

She held her breath, not knowing whether to reply or maintain her silence in the hope that he would eventually shut up, and was saved a decision by the telephone.

It was a protracted conversation, and by the time he got off the phone he had obviously forgotten all about her and her private life. He opened one of the files on his desk, and Alice breathed a sigh of relief.

As he dictated letters to her, and her hand flew over the notepad, turning pages, she realised that she was writing, listening, following orders, but with her mind halfway to somewhere else.

She didn’t want Victor Temple showing any sort of interest in her, even interest of the most casual nature. She had become accustomed to their well-tuned, impersonal relationship. Now she could feel her eyes drifting to him, surreptitiously taking him in, just like all those women whose eyes travelled over him whenever he was in their company.

She woke from her semi-reverie to hear him talking to her about his latest project.

‘It’s a rather grand house.’ There were a series of photos which he began to extract from a folder, flicking through them, turning the pictures this way and that with a frown. ‘Handed down through the generations. The gardens have been landscaped by someone rather famous. The inside of the house itself is quite special, and apparently there are all manner of royal connections, albeit in the past.’

‘Why have the owners come to you?’

‘Owner. Just the one chap and I gather the cost of running the place is proving to be a strain on his bank balance. Reading between the lines, I’d say that the chap in question has eaten his way through quite a bit of the family money and now finds himself with a title and not much else to go with it.’

He looked up and tapped his fountain pen on his desk. ‘Usual story. Large family inheritance which has gradually been whittled down through the ages. Now there’s just the house and the upkeep is fabulously high. Our client figures that if the house is opened to the public he might be able to recover some of the costs of running it. Our job is to sell it, discreetly.’

‘Oh, right.’ She was almost back to normal now, thank heavens. Mind firmly anchored on the task at hand, and Victor back to his usual self. That brief moment had been unsettling to say the very least.

‘Have a look at the photos. Tell me what you think.’

He handed the large, glossy prints to her, and Alice felt a cold chill of horror spread through her. It started in the pit of her stomach and gradually spread through her body until she felt as though her limbs had frozen completely. She couldn’t move. She could hardly think straight. She sifted through the photographs with shaking hands and then placed them on the desk in front of her.

‘Well? What do you think?’ He looked up from the file, which he had been scanning.

‘What sort of advertising campaign does he have in mind?’ Alice asked faintly. Her brain, which had been temporarily numbed, now began working in overdrive. There was no reason, she told herself, that this project should intrude on her life. There was no need for her to involve herself in it in any way whatsoever. She would remain calm, cool, collected.

Victor’s eyes narrowed. ‘A series of spreads in one of the more prestigious country magazines. He wants to open the house and grounds to visitors. In due course, he has plans to turn the place into a country hotel.’

‘I see.’

‘Where the hell are you this morning, Alice?’

‘What do you mean?’ She attempted a smile but the muscles in her face felt stiff.

‘I mean,’ Victor said very slowly, with exaggerated patience, ‘you look as though you’ve seen a ghost. You’re as white as a sheet. Don’t tell me that you’ve picked up some bug on holiday. I don’t think I can stand another fortnight with a temp.’

‘No. I’m fine.’ She swallowed, and rummaged around in her head for something intelligent to say about the campaign. ‘Yes! It doesn’t sound as though it should be a terribly difficult job. I mean, the house more or less speaks for itself.’

‘Right. That’s what I thought.’ He began explaining what he had in mind, while she half-listened and nodded—she hoped in all the right places. ‘I’ve made an appointment for us to visit in a week’s time.’ He snapped shut the file. ‘We should get more of a feel for the place when we see it.’

‘We!’

‘Naturally. I’ll want you there to observe and take notes.’ He scrutinised her face. ‘Why? Is there a problem with that?’

‘No!’ There wasn’t a problem with that, she thought wildly. There were several thousand problems with it. ‘It’s just that I’m not sure whether I shall be able to find the time... I mean, it looks as though Rebecca has left quite a backlog of work to be brought up to date. And then, some of the accounts are a bit behind. I shall have to devote some time to chasing them...’ Her voice drifted off into silence and he looked at her as though she had taken leave of her senses.

‘You can clear the backlog in a matter of a day or two,’ Victor said slowly, as though talking to someone mentally deficient. ‘And Sam’s handled some of the overdue accounts. I made sure that she brought them up to date. Any more excuses?’

‘I really would rather not be on this particular job,’ Alice confessed flatly, when she couldn’t think of another excuse to give him. It made no difference anyway. She recognised that glint in his eye. She could throw a million excuses at him and short of her taking to her bed with a broken leg he would simply demolish them one by one until he had got what he wanted. Namely, her presence there.

‘Why not?’

‘I’d rather not go into it, if you don’t mind. I’m only asking you to respect my request.’

‘And I’d rather you did go into it, if you don’t mind. When I hear what you’ve got to say, then I’ll tell you whether I shall respect your request or not.’

Typical, she thought with helpless, frustrated despair. Typical, typical, typical. Anyone else would have simply nodded and let the matter rest. Anyone else with even an ounce of sympathy would have trusted that her reasons were valid, and would have acquiesced to her request. But not Victor Temple, oh, no. If he saw a Keep Out sign, then his immediate response was to try and get in. And he wouldn’t be content to try and find the easiest entrance. He would simply take the quickest route and would use whatever methods he had at his disposal. The man was a shark.

How could this have happened? How could the one man in the world she wanted to have nothing to do with, with the one stately house in the world she would rather never have re-entered, have chosen the one advertising company in the country she worked at to promote his wretched place?