A Stranger's Kiss

by Liz Fielding

  A quick exploration of a cupboard revealed a pile of stationery and she took a notepad and several pencils from a new box. She tapped on Adam’s door and opened it.

  ‘Ready?’ He didn’t wait for her answer. She had hardly seated herself before he began. ‘I want this retyped.’ She recognised the report from the previous evening. He looked up. ‘Preferably without any mistakes.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Adam.’ Her humble tone earned her a sharp look.

  He worked swiftly through a pile of correspondence. ‘Tell these people no. No. No. Ask for more details,’ he said, tossing letters at her. And so it went on. Eventually they reached the bottom of the pile and he leaned back and linked his hands behind his head. ‘I’m going to dictate a report that I need as soon as you can manage.’ He raised an eyebrow in polite query. ‘Today, perhaps?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ she agreed, half-hopefully and once more received the benefit of a searching glance.

  He began to dictate, without reference to notes and at such a speed that Tara wondered, in a brief moment when he paused for breath, if he was simply reciting from memory in an effort to have her begging for mercy. Her pencil flew over page after page until, at last, he reached his conclusion.

  She looked up then, waiting for the next onslaught. ‘Is that everything?’

  ‘It should keep you busy for the rest of the morning. Let me have a draft of that before you do anything else.’

  ‘It’s already half-past-twelve,’ she pointed out. ‘And according to your secretary’s diary you have an appointment at one o’clock. With Jane.’

  ‘So I have.’ She made a move to go. ‘Oh, and Tara, while I remember.’ She paused before his desk. ‘I don’t want to see any of your admirers, desperate or otherwise falling over themselves in my office. You will make certain they are all aware of that fact?’

  Tara was in grave danger of losing her self-control. In danger of slapping Adam Blackmore’s imperious, overbearing face so hard that all chance of gaining his company’s business would be lost forever. That thought alone kept the smile pinned to her mouth.

  ‘I’ll issue a bulletin for the one o’clock news. Just to be certain,’ she said, her voice somehow retaining a teasing lightness she was far from feeling.

  ‘There are so many?’ A spark that might have been anger flashed in the shadowed depths of his eyes. ‘I leave the method of broadcast entirely up to you, Tara. Just make sure you do it in your own time.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. But very quietly.

  * * *

  Tara did not consider the possibility of taking an hour for lunch. Or even half an hour. Lunch would have to wait. There was too much at stake to waste time eating and she set to work, rattling out a draft of the report that Adam had dictated.

  She found the original version of the report that needed corrections and dealt with that, too, before hunger finally drove her in search of a sandwich. She had been gone barely fifteen minutes, but when she returned it was to find Adam Blackmore fuming in her office.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ he demanded, before she had hung up her coat.

  ‘Lunch?’ she offered.

  He stared at his watch. ‘Lunch! Is this the usual length of lunch break your so-called superior secretaries take?’

  ‘About average,’ she agreed. ‘If you’re looking for your report I left the draft on your desk.’

  He turned and walked into his office without a word.

  ‘Thank you, Tara. You’re a treasure, Tara,’ she murmured to herself. Then she began to tackle the pile of correspondence he had given her. Despite an endless stream of interruptions from Adam she had finished by five. He threw the blotter of signed letters on her desk.

  ‘When you’ve got those away you can go,’ he said.

  ‘Go?’ For one appalling moment she thought he had decided that one day was enough, but before she could protest that he hadn’t given her a fair chance, he took the wind out of her sails.

  ‘I’ve a meeting this evening with the manufacturers for whom I prepared that report and I want you to take notes.’

  Whew… ‘Are you holding the meeting in the boardroom, or up here?’

  ‘Neither. The meeting is in Hammersmith. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.’ He paused in the doorway that connected their offices. ‘It’s not inconvenient is it, Tara?’

  ‘And if it is?’ she asked.

  His mouth curved in an insolent smile. ‘Tough.’

  He didn’t wait to see the effect this response had on her, which was probably as well. She telephoned Beth to cancel their meeting then swiftly stuffed the envelopes with the mail, stamped it and put on her coat.

  ‘Still here?’ She had just summoned the lift and swung round to find Adam Blackmore, wrapped only in a short towelling robe, his dark hair damp and dishevelled from the shower, standing behind her. A matching pair of doors opposite his office, stood half open to reveal a glimpse of the accommodation beyond.

  The significance of “private apartments” suddenly struck her.

  ‘You live here?’ she asked. But she already knew the answer. It was little wonder he had thought she was pursuing him.

  ‘Very good, Tara,’ he said, his mouth twisted in a parody of a smile. ‘Did you ever consider a career on the stage?’ He didn’t give her an opportunity to protest. ‘I’ll show you round when there’s more time. We might even try that ‘coffee’ you were so keen on. Now we know exactly where we stand.’ He leaned against the wall. ‘I told you to leave half an hour ago. Why are you still here?’ There was no denying the steely insistence underlying the velvet softness of his voice.

  She swallowed hard. ‘I had to change my own arrangements for this evening.’

  His jaw tightened imperceptibly. ‘I’m sure he’ll wait. You are worth waiting for, aren’t you, Tara?’

  ‘You’ll never know.’

  There was a disquieting confidence about his smile. ‘You can use the private lift. It will take you to the side entrance on the ground floor.’ He opened the door for her. ‘I prefer to keep it locked. Otherwise all sorts of odd people can wander up.’ He took her hand in his, pressed the key into her palm and wrapped her fingers around it. ‘Keep it safe.’ He turned her and propelled her towards the small private lift. ‘Six-thirty. Not a minute later.’

  * * *

  Tara was still fuming as she stood under a hot shower. Who on earth did he think he was? How could anyone work for such a man? Yet the neat stack of dated shorthand notebooks she had found in the cupboards suggested that the secretary she was standing in for had been with him for a long time.

  The water was relaxing, taking the tension out of her neck muscles. He was just testing her. Making sure she was what she claimed to be, but if he thought that she was prepared to use her body in the furtherance of business, she would disabuse him very quickly if he ever tried to put it to the test.

  A little smile of satisfaction lifted the corners of her mouth. She had survived the first day. She had taken the worst he had been able to throw at her and come through more-or-less unscathed. Feeling decidedly more confident she grabbed a towel and began to dry herself vigorously.

  She decided to wear a simple black jersey dress with long sleeves and a scooped neckline, elegant enough for the evening, but sufficiently understated for a secretary at a business meeting. She fastened the little gold brooch near her shoulder, tracing the simple shape with the tip of her finger; the outline of her name in shorthand. A reminder, a talisman against the aggressive charm of Adam Blackmore.

  A peremptory ring at the bell summoned her to the door and she glanced at her watch. Precisely six-thirty. She hadn’t doubted it for a moment. She picked up her coat and bag and opened the door.

  He ran an assessing glance over her appearance and raised a sardonic brow. ‘How appropriate. Come along.’

  Tara made no comment. She dressed for the job she did. She knew that in many offices the staff were much more casual these days, even wore jeans, but she
had her own very good reasons for preferring to keep her dress formal.

  He led the way down the steps and ushered her into a sleek black Jaguar and she allowed her herself a smile as she fastened her seat belt. The car so exactly suited her idea of the sort of car a twenty-first century knight might drive. A black knight. The analogy was so apt that she was forced to smother a giggle.

  ‘What’s so amusing?’ he demanded.

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

  He stared for a moment as if she was quite mad, then shrugged and started the car. The conversation on the way into London was a one-way affair in which he briefed her on the meeting, who was to be there and what notes he wanted her to take.

  The journey home was accomplished in silence, with Adam deep in thought and apparently forgetting that he had Tara with him, he drove straight into the car park beneath Victoria House.

  He caught her glance. ‘I need those notes tonight, Tara. How long will it take?’ He didn’t bother to ask if she could do it. He simply expected that she would.

  ‘Does your permanent secretary work these hours?’ she asked.

  ‘Finding it too much for you already, Tara? Not got what it takes after all?’

  She ignored this. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ He frowned, not understanding the question. ‘Your secretary. Jenny told me that she’s on sick leave.’

  ‘So you’ve met Jenny.’

  ‘She came up to see me. She had the oddest notion of making me feel welcome. Explaining where everything was and telling me the names of a few people I might need to know.’

  She had also taken the trouble to explain that Adam rarely interfered with the running of his many business interests, leaving it to the bright young men he put in charge, offering advice only when it was applied for. He spent his time working on new ventures, apparently. Developing new ideas.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He wasn’t in the least bit put out by her implied criticism. ‘Jane is...’ He hesitated and Tara caught a flash of white teeth in the subdued light of the car park as if something had finally amused him. ‘No need to concern yourself. Jane isn’t suffering from anything infectious,’ he assured her.

  So his lunch appointment had been with his secretary. Clearly she wasn’t that sick. ‘That’s not much comfort, Adam. Malnutrition isn’t catching.’

  ‘Sarcasm will get you nowhere with me, Tara. I am aware you haven’t had time for a meal and I’ll organise some supper for us upstairs. You can eat when you’ve finished.’

  ‘Thank you.’ But her dry tone drew no response.

  The private lift whisked them swiftly to the penthouse suite and Tara went straight to her office and began to work. She was tired, hungry and ridiculously close to tears which wasn’t like her. But the day had been fraught with tensions, she had missed breakfast because she overslept and if she allowed herself to think about it too much she would begin to shake.

  ‘How much longer?’

  While she had been working Adam had changed from his dark business suit. Now pale, well-washed denims stretched tightly across his hips and thighs, emphasising the arrogant maleness of the man. Tara dragged her eyes back to the printer.

  ‘It’s printing now.’

  ‘Then come and eat,’ he said, leading the way to his apartment and another world.

  His drawing room was vast. The pale polished floor seemed to stretch forever, interrupted only by Persian rugs and furniture that would have been equally at home in a modern art gallery. One wall consisted of the familiar arched windows beyond which the lights of the May Valley were spread beneath them. Opposite, the wide expanse was broken by an open fireplace where flames flickered over an enormous log. The fireplace was flanked on either side with a pair of Mark Rothko canvasses, huge subtle areas of colour that seemed to suck her in and wrap around her mind.

  Tara stopped in the doorway, silenced by the simple beauty of it.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I...’ She couldn’t think of any comment that did not sound banal and instead offered him the faintest smile. ‘I was just wondering if you expected me to polish the floor in my spare time.’

  His eyes gleamed wickedly. ‘You won’t have any spare time, Tara.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her smile was forced. ‘You do realise that I charge by the hour?’

  ‘And double after six o’clock I have no doubt. I guarantee that I’ll get every penny’s worth,’ he said, his buccaneer’s eyes appearing to dance in the shifting light from the fire. Or perhaps she was just feeling light-headed for want of food. As if he could read her mind he led her across to a table laid for two and pulled back a chair.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he commanded and while she ladled rice and a rich, spicy beef dish onto two plates, Adam poured them both glasses of a rich red wine.

  She ate slowly, with total concentration, savouring every mouthful, until replete, she sat back with a little sigh.

  ‘Do you feel better now?’ he asked with apparent amusement.

  Hunger pangs assuaged she was prepared to be generous. ‘Much,’ she assured him.

  ‘I’ll pass your compliments to the chef.’

  ‘You didn’t cook it yourself?’ she asked, in mock surprise. She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand, regarding him with total innocence. ‘Of course not. Silly me. Why would you bother to cook when you obviously own the wine bar at the bottom of the lift shaft?’

  ‘Why indeed?’ Adam stood up. ‘Come and sit over here.’

  ‘I can’t do that. There’s the little matter of washing up, or have you forgotten about getting every penny’s worth?’

  She gathered the dishes onto a tray and carried them through into a gleaming white galley kitchen. He followed her and took the tray from her hands. ‘Leave them.’ His smile was provoking. ‘Eating time I’m prepared to pay for, but washing up is strictly on your own time.’ He slid his hand under her arm and led her firmly from the bright kitchen to the shifting, fickle light of the fire.

  ‘It’s real!’ Tara exclaimed in delight and relieved to have an excuse to pull free of his disturbing fingers, bent down to hold her hands out to the flames. ‘I thought it was one of those gas things.’

  ‘I have no interest in fakes, Tara.’ He waited while she curled up in a huge leather armchair, then handed her a brandy before stretching out in a chair opposite her, his long legs propped on the hearth. He sipped his drink. ‘Of any sort.’

  She cupped her hands around the glass and stared down for a moment at the pale liquid, watching the firelight strike sparks of amber from the crystal. Over dinner the evening had somehow ceased to be about business. This was not the office. This was the penthouse apartment of an attractive— her mind shied away from the blandness of the word. Attractive was not an expression that evenly remotely applied to Adam Blackmore.

  She regarded him from beneath the screen of her lashes. There was nothing bland about him. He was as invigorating as standing beneath a mountain waterfall and had much the same effect on the ability to breath. Her experience in such matters was limited, but she knew without any doubt that he was the most potently desirable man she had ever met. And the most dangerous.

  The evening had taken a subtle turn so that she had hardly noticed when they had moved away from business. And now they were sitting together before the fire sipping brandy in a manner that implied a perilous intimacy.

  She put her glass down and straightened from the chair. Maybe this was an accepted part of his relationship with his permanent secretary, but there was a limit to how far she would go to take Jane’s place.

  She was his temporary secretary. She wasn’t prepared to take the same role as his lover.

  ‘I’d better make sure that the printer hasn’t jammed,’ she said, but he caught her hand as she moved quickly past him and taking her by surprise, spun her into his lap.

  His eyes fixed her, held her momentarily in his power. ‘The printer can look after itself,’ he murmured, softly into her neck so the words vibrate
d against her skin and Tara knew that if she allowed her head to fall against his shoulder and parted her lips he would take everything she was prepared to offer and more.

  But there had been something altogether too calculating in the momentary glimpse she had caught of his eyes before he closed them and she shivered. ‘So can I, Adam. But I’d prefer to get up without an unseemly struggle.’

  He raised his head and she caught a gasp between her teeth. Whatever his original intentions, there was no doubting the desire that turned his eyes black in the shifting light of the flames.

  It had been a long time since she had wanted to lie back in a man’s arms. It was nearly seven years since Nigel’s death and in all that time no one had broken through the shell she had erected to protect her heart.

  Almost in panic she tried to move, but he held her firm and despite her brave words she knew that if he chose to keep her captive she would be hard pressed to free herself without resorting to the unforgivable. And she faced the disturbing truth that if he insisted upon kissing her she might never want to be free again.

  For a moment his eyes challenged her to defy him, to ignore the warmth of his body against her own, to ignore the way his mouth curved with sensuous insolence, inviting her to make the first move and risk the surging desire that had surfaced so abruptly when he had kissed her in the wine bar.

  It was hard. Harder still to ignore clamour of her blood pounding with wild impatience through her veins and the way her skin was tingling, begging to be stroked by the long fingers holding her against him, teased by the broad tip of his thumb, already far too close to a betraying nipple, erect against the soft cloth of her dress.

  Another moment would have been a moment too long but without warning he stood up with her, surprising a soft cry from her lips. He smiled then, and set her gently on her feet.

  ‘You’re right, Tara. Better check the printer. Then I’ll walk you home.’

  Her hands were shaking as she shuffled the papers into some semblance of order. She managed to slip them into a folder and turned, holding it as a kind of defence against him as he followed her into the office.