Emma Darcy: Mischief And Marriage

Ashley held her tongue, mentally noting the two grammatical errors in that little speech. Here was another king-size ego who knew everything and could do no wrong! Ashley had been married to one for long enough to have experienced the God complex at close quarters. She had learnt there was no reasoning with it, no appeal that would pierce it, no way to get around it.

In her youthful naivety, Ashley had fallen blindly in love with Roger Harcourt. He had been handsome, always well-dressed, sophisticated in his tastes and strongly athletic, excelling in all competitive sports. Self-assurance had oozed from him, and during their early days together, Ashley had thought him utterly perfect.

Having drifted between divorced and disinterested parents for most of her teens, she had loved the way Roger took charge of everything and told her what was best for her to do. Ashley had interpreted that as proof of his caring for her. She’d had no perception of how tyrannical it could become.

She had thought she was getting love and strength and support and direction in her life when she had married Roger Harcourt.

She had certainly got direction.

She had had such a surfeit of direction from Roger, she doubted she would ever stomach the idea of marriage again. However difficult she sometimes found running her own life and being a single parent, it was still preferable to having her subordination taken as someone else’s right.

Gordon Payne was now behaving as though she was subordinate to him, too. ‘Run proper tests on these women in future. Don’t believe their résumés,’ he commanded. ‘It’s nothing but pretentious twaddle.’

As head of a home construction company-Painless Homes with Gordon Payne—and a member of the local shire council, he was a man of considerable standing in the community. Ashley had thought him a valuable business client, someone who would direct others to her agency if her service satisfied him. After hearing the dismissed secretary’s story earlier this afternoon, she had decided then and there to cut him from her files, regardless of cost or consequences.

She was still inwardly fuming over the treatment that this pompous pain of a man had dished out to a young woman whom any sensible employer would cherish. Cheryn Kimball was too good for him. That was the problem.

Cheryn was not only highly qualified in all the areas Gordon Payne had demanded, she presented herself with style and polish and had a natural charm of manner that would endear her to most people. She had been traumatised, reduced to floods of tears by the unjust haranguing and arbitrary dismissal over doing what she believed to be her job.

‘And I don’t want a woman who talks back at me!’ the monster ego raged.

That hit a particularly raw point with Ashley. Roger had felt he had the right to silence her by icily declaring, ‘I am the head of this house!’ What was she supposed to have been? The tail? The feet running after him all the time? She had discovered, too late, there were only one-way streets with Roger.

Ashley barely stopped herself from glowering at Gordon Payne. What he wanted was a mechanical robot programmed to toadying submission. Yes, master. At your service, master. Whatever you say, master.

The warm indulgence he had displayed towards his previous long-time secretary was explained in Cheryn’s report. The woman had been mollycoddling him for the past twenty years. Even though she had retired, she had ‘dropped in’ at the office each day this week to ‘break Cheryn in to the way dear Gordon likes things done,’ and deliberately, jealously undermined Cheryn’s confidence in her position and abilities.

Just like Roger’s mother.

Ashley shuddered.

Roger’s mother had considered herself a cut above everyone else since she was supposedly connected to some great line of landed gentry in Britain. Such pretensions had obviously contributed to Roger’s sense of superiority. Her condescending manner had been a constant burr under Ashley’s skin.

She hadn’t wished Roger and his mother dead. She had made up her mind to divorce both of them. The fight for freedom had just begun when fate intervened and released her from the trauma of battling a custody case over William.

Of course, any reasonable person wouldn’t have tried to drive across a bridge that was partly submerged by torrential floodwaters. Roger hadn’t liked being beaten by anything. He and his mother had been swept away by a force bigger than both of them. They had probably drowned with a sense of outrage that such a thing could have happened.

Now here was this odious man reminding her of all she had put behind her. She wished she could wave a magic wand and give him a taste of servitude under someone like himself. Unfortunately her power of reprisal was strictly limited to a figurative kick out the door.

‘I won’t be paying your commission until you find me a suitable secretary,’ was the predictable ultimatum. ‘And I want someone in the office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning to get on with the work. A temporary will have to do until you come up with the right person.’

‘I’m sorry you’ve been disappointed, Mr. Payne,’ Ashley said coolly, ‘but may I remind you that our contract was for me to supply you with three interviewees with the qualifications you listed. I did so. You chose Miss Kimball. You owe me five hundred dollars, and I expect to be paid.’

‘You guaranteed satisfaction,’ he answered angrily.

‘You specified initiative as one of the qualities you required, Mr. Payne. Miss Kimball believed she was saving you the embarrassment of sending out grammatically incorrect letters. Many employers would value such care, knowledge and attention applied to their correspondence.’

That stung him. ‘I tell you she got it wrong!’ Gordon Payne’s face developed angry red patches. ‘When I specified initiative I meant for her to supply me with what I needed, when I needed it, without having to ask all the time. She failed that, too!’

‘There is a difference between initiative and mindreading, Mr. Payne. I do have a reader of tarot cards and a magician in my files, but I don’t have any clairvoyants or mind-readers. Not amongst those seeking either permanent or temporary employment. I suggest you try some other agency.’

The red patches deepened to burning blotches. He stood up, using his size to intimidate. He was a bullish figure of a man, short-necked, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested. His rather fleshy features were framed by crinkly brown hair, giving him a deceptively boyish look for a man in his forties. There was a mean glitter in his dark eyes.

‘Don’t get smart with me, Mrs. Harcourt,’ he snarled. ‘I hold a position of influence in this town. I could do you a lot of good.’

The threat that he could also do her a lot of damage was left hanging, unspoken but clearly implied.

Ashley was on the petite side, below average height, delicately boned, slim-framed. She achieved what she hoped was a mature and dignified stature by wearing smartly tailored business suits and pinning her long blond hair into a French pleat, but her appearance was essentially dainty and feminine.

Gordon Payne undoubtedly thought he could make mincemeat out of her and eat her for breakfast. What he didn’t know was she was one hundred per cent steel-proofed against being bullied into anything she didn’t want to do. If he’d looked more closely he might have seen some sign of that in the flintlike directness of her wide grey eyes.

She remained seated. This was her office, her home, her castle, and no-one was going to shift her from the position she had established for herself. ‘I appreciate the offer, Mr. Payne,’ she said calmly. ‘I regret I can’t return the favour. I’ve already done my best for you.’