Lee Wilkinson - Stand-In Mistress

Joanne brushed out her long dark hair and pulled on a voluminous cotton nightie, before cleaning her teeth more vigorously than usual.

Then, climbing into bed, she switched off the light, closed her eyes, and endeavoured to put Brad Lancing right out of her mind.

After more than an hour she was still wide awake and, in spite of all her efforts, still thinking about him, repeatedly going over in her mind everything he had said and done.

Especially that last devastating kiss.

She could still recall the way his mouth had ruthlessly mastered hers; smell the subtle scent of his aftershave; taste the hint of liqueur and the freshness of his breath; feel the way every nerve in her body had tightened in response.

Just thinking about it was enough to stir her senses and, she was horrified to realise, make a core of liquid heat start to form in the pit of her stomach.

No! She tried hard to deny it. How could a man like that, a man she both loathed and despised, arouse a desire that a decent, upright man like Trevor had never been able to awaken?

It was unthinkable.

Disturbed and wholly dismayed, she tossed and turned restlessly, finally drifting into an uneasy doze around dawn.

Joanne was trawled from the depths by a persistent sound that it took her a moment or two to identify as the doorbell.

It was almost certainly the postman, who was tending to come early these days, and she didn’t want Steve to be disturbed. Working as hard as he did, he liked to sleep late at the weekend.

Stumbling groggily out of bed, she pulled on her dressing gown and, tying the belt around her slender waist, padded barefoot down the stairs.

All the time the bell kept ringing with a maddening persistence that grated on her nerves. So much noise, and he probably only wanted to deliver one of those aggravating packets that gave themselves importance by saying, ‘Please do not bend…’ and then contained just junk mail.

Having drawn back the bolts, she threw open the door, and burst out crossly, ‘Will you please stop ringing the bell? My brother’s still in bed and…’

The words died on her lips.

Brad Lancing was standing there wearing a well-cut suit and a matching shirt and tie. Freshly shaved, his thick, dark hair parted on the left and neatly brushed, his green eyes clear and sparkling with health, he looked dangerously attractive and virile.

Before she could slam the door in his face he took his finger off the bell-push, and strolled in as if he owned the place.

As, the wind taken completely out of her sails, Joanne stepped back, he closed the door behind him and stood gazing down at her, his six-foot frame easily dwarfing her.

Straight-faced, he studied her shiny nose, the dark, silky hair tumbling round her shoulders, her demure Victorian nightdress and gown, her slim bare feet, and commented, ‘Just up, I see.’

Infuriated by his obvious amusement, she demanded, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Can’t you guess?’

‘It’s too early in the morning for guessing games,’ she informed him curtly, ‘so perhaps you wouldn’t mind just telling me what you want?’

His eyes glinted at her tone. ‘You.’

‘What?’ she said stupidly.

‘I’ll be setting off for Norway around lunch time today, and I need a secretary. As it’s the weekend and too late to make other arrangements, I’ve decided to accept your offer.’

‘Offer? What offer?’

‘Surely you remember offering, “If by any chance Milly can’t come, I might volunteer for the post myself”?’

‘I wasn’t serious.’ She took a step backwards and, a panicky edge to her voice, repeated, ‘Of course I wasn’t serious.’

His dark, winged brows drew together in a frown. ‘That’s a pity, because when I said I might hold you to it, I was.

‘Now, clearly your sister isn’t in any position to come, so the job’s yours.’

Knowing he’d noted that touch of panic, and determined to stay cool, Joanne said, ‘Thanks, but I already have a job.’

‘I’m sure that, for the next six weeks or so, your brother could find himself another PA.’

With polite finality, she said, ‘Even if he could, I wouldn’t be taking up your offer.’

The door to the kitchen was ajar, and, glancing in at the comfortable-looking high-backed chairs drawn up in front of the stove, Brad suggested, ‘Rather than stand here, suppose we go through and have some coffee while we talk about it?’

‘I’ve no intention of making you coffee, and I don’t want to talk about it.’

Stepping past him, she held open the front door. ‘Now, if you’ll please leave.’

When he made no move to go, losing her cool, she cried, ‘Go on, get out! If you don’t leave this instant I’ll call Steve and get him to throw you out.’

‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

Though his tone was mild, it was undoubtedly a threat, and she hesitated. There was something about his firm mouth, the set of his jaw that, despite his quiet manner, his veneer of charm, made him formidable.

She shivered.

Steve was far from being a seven-stone weakling, but she sensed instinctively that he would be no match for this man.

As she stood irresolute, Brad Lancing took control once more. Closing the door, he put a hand beneath her elbow and urged her towards the kitchen.

Digging in her toes, she said mutinously, ‘As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing to talk about. You are the last person in the world I would choose to work for.’

He shook his head almost regretfully. ‘Ah, but you see, you don’t have a choice. At least not if you care what happens to Steve’s company.’

‘What do you mean, “care what happens to Steve’s company”? Of course I care.’ She was aware that the note of panic was back in her voice.

‘Then we do have something to talk about.’

He strode into the kitchen, leaving her to follow in his wake, demanding anxiously, ‘What could happen to Steve’s company?’

Ignoring the question, he asked, ‘Would you like to make some coffee?’

‘I’ve already told you, I wouldn’t.’

He indicated one of the armchairs. ‘Then perhaps you’d like to sit down?’

‘I don’t want to sit down. I want to know what you’re talking about.’

Plugging in the electric kettle, he began to calmly assemble the cafetière and mugs. ‘When we’re both sitting down with a cup of coffee, I’ll be happy to explain.’

SEEING he meant to have his way, she bit her lip and sat down, watching him with angry eyes.

His movements were deft, assured as he spooned coffee into the cafetière and filled it with water. She wondered abstractedly how such a masculine man could look so at home in a kitchen.

It was the last thing she had expected.

A lot of wealthy men with a staff of servants to wait on them had probably never even seen the inside of a kitchen.

As though aware of her hostile scrutiny, he turned and cocked an eyebrow at her. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk, please.’ She forced herself to answer civilly.

He handed her a mug of coffee and, putting his own on the stove where he could reach it, sat down in one of the high-backed chairs and regarded her quizzically.

Because he was well-groomed and smartly dressed, with her hair tumbling round her shoulders she felt dishevelled, and at a distinct disadvantage in what Milly referred to as her ‘little orphan Annie’ garb.

In a reflex action, she tucked her bare feet beneath her voluminous skirts, and saw him smile.

Gritting her teeth, she said as calmly as possible, ‘Now you’ve got what you wanted and we’re both sitting down with a cup of coffee, perhaps you’ll tell me what could possibly happen to Steve?’