The answers were simultaneous, but Simon knew which side his bread was buttered. He smiled at Eastwich’s new boss before strolling off down the corridor.
Deserted, Tory went on the offensive. ‘What do you want?’
‘We need to talk,’ he responded in a low undertone, ‘but not here. It’s too public. Come to lunch.’
Tory shook her head. ‘I can’t.’
‘Or won’t?’ he challenged in reply.
Tory had forgotten he had no time for social niceties. She abandoned them, too.
‘All right, I won’t,’ she confirmed.
He nodded, then looked at her long and hard. ‘If it’s any comfort, you scare the hell out of me, too.’
Was he serious? Tory wasn’t sure, but the conversation was already in dangerous territory.
She deliberately misunderstood him, answering, ‘I don’t know why you’d be scared of me, Mr Ryecart. It’s not as if I could sack you.’
He made an exasperated sound. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it! Can’t you forget our respective positions for a single moment?’
‘Shh!’ she urged before they attracted an audience. ‘But, no, since you ask, I can’t forget. Neither would you, I imagine, if you were in my position.’
‘Underneath me?’ he suggested.
‘Yes!’ She’d walked right into it.
He smiled, giving it a whole new meaning, while Tory blushed furiously.
‘If only you were.’ His eyes made a leisurely trip down her body and back again.
‘You—’ Tory could think of several names to call him but none seemed rude enough.
‘It’s all right, I can guess.’ He was more amused than anything.
Tory seethed with frustration and anger. If she didn’t walk away, she would surely hit him.
She did walk away, but he followed her to the lift.
It took an age to arrive. She stood there, ignoring him. Which was hard, when she could feel him staring at her.
The lift arrived and a couple of women from Drama stepped out. They nodded at Tory, then glanced at her companion. Their gaze was one of admiration rather than recognition.
Lucas Ryecart was oblivious, stepping into the lift with her.
Tory wanted to step out again, but it seemed an act of cowardice. What could he do in the five seconds it took for the lift to reach the ground floor?
He could stop it, that was what. He could run a quick eye over the array of buttons and hit the emergency one.
Tory didn’t quite realise what he’d done until the lift lurched to a halt.
‘You can’t do that!’ She was genuinely outraged at his action.
‘Why not?’
‘I…you… Because…well, you just can’t!’
He grinned, mocking her regard for authority, and she flashed him a look of dislike.
‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her, ‘I’ll give myself a severe reprimand later… For now, let’s talk.’
‘I don’t want to talk.’ Tory eyed the control panel, wondering if she should make a lunge at it.
She rejected the move as overly dramatic until he drawled, ‘Fair enough. Let’s not talk,’ and, with one step, closed the distance between them.
Sensual blue eyes warned her of his intention.
Tory’s heart leapt. In alarm, she decided, and raised her arms to fend him off.
‘If you touch me—’
‘You’ll scream?’
So she wasn’t original. She was still serious.
‘Yes!’
‘Well, of course, what else would you do, the lift being stuck and all?’
Tory glowered at him. He had an answer for everything.
He stretched out a hand and lightly brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Then, before she could protest, he stepped back to his corner of the lift.
‘Don’t panic. I won’t touch you till you ask me to.’
He appeared confident she would.
‘We’ll both be dead before then,’ she shot back.
The insult went wide. His smile remained.
He leaned back against the wall as if he had all the time in the world. ‘You never told Simpson about our…our conversation yesterday, did you?’
‘There was nothing to tell,’ she retorted, the ultimate put-down.
He arched a brow in disbelief. ‘It’s fairly usual for you, I suppose, being propositioned by other men?’
‘Happens all the time,’ she claimed, deadpan.
He laughed, briefly amused, then regarded her intently before murmuring, ‘I can believe it.’
He had a way of looking at a woman that made Tory finally understand the expression ‘bedroom eyes’. She tried hard to conjure up some indignation.
He helped her along by adding, ‘So why settle for a wimp like Simpson?’
‘When I could have someone like you?’ she replied with obvious scorn.
‘I wasn’t thinking specifics. Pretty much any young, free and single guy would be an improvement on Simpson,’ he said in considered tones. ‘But, yes, since you’re asking, I reckon there’s every chance you could have me.’
The sheer nerve of him took Tory’s breath away. ‘You…I…wasn’t—’
‘After you show Simpson the door, of course,’ he stated as a condition.
Tory still didn’t believe she was having this conversation. ‘And if I don’t?’
His eyes narrowed, even as he admitted, ‘I haven’t thought that far.’
But when he did? Would their jobs be in jeopardy?
Tory found it impossible to gauge. Lucas Ryecart was still a stranger to her.
She glanced across at him. Today he was dressed formally. In dark double-breasted suit, relieved by a white shirt and silk tie, he would have looked every inch the businessman if it hadn’t been for his casual stance, hands in pockets, length resting against a wall of the lift.
He caught and held her eye and homed in on her thoughts as he continued, ‘If I wanted to fire Alex Simpson, I could have done so this morning with no great effort. I believe he has already had the requisite number of warnings.’
Tory hadn’t known that. She’d imagined the executive board of Eastwich ignorant of Alex’s recent conduct.
‘Had you and he not been cohabiting—’ his mouth twisted on the word ‘—chances are I would have. Instead I felt obliged to keep carrying him, at least for the time being.’
Tory frowned, failing to follow his logic. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s like this. I wanted to fire him and normally would have.’ A shrug said it would have given him little grief. ‘However, I wasn’t a hundred per cent certain why. Most likely it was because he’s a sorry excuse for a production manager, but it just could be because he happens to be living with the woman I want,’ he pondered aloud.
‘I—I…y-you…’ His bluntness reduced Tory to incoherence.
‘So I decided I’d leave it for now,’ he concluded, ‘and if he continues to mess up, I won’t have the dilemma.’
‘You’ll fire him, anyway?’ Tory finally found her voice.
‘Correct,’ he confirmed without apology.
‘And what if he gets back on form?’ she challenged.
‘Then he has nothing to worry about it.’ He met her eye and his gaze did not waver.
He was either a man of honour or a very convincing liar. The jury was still out on which, but Tory could see the situation was going to be impossible.
‘Maybe I should be the one to leave.’
‘Eastwich?’
‘Yes.’
His face darkened momentarily. ‘You’d do that for Simpson?’
The suggestion had Tory sighing loudly. ‘You mean hand in my notice while quoting “It is a far, far better thing that I do,” etc. etc.?’
His lips quirked slightly, recognising the irony in her voice. ‘Something like that.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but self-sacrifice is not part of my nature,’ she told him. ‘
Try self-preservation.’
‘From me?’ He arched a brow.
‘Who else?’ she flipped back.
Arms folded, he thought about it some, before querying, ‘Do I bother you that much?’
‘Yes. No… What do you expect?’ she retorted in quick succession and masked any confusion with a glare.
It had little effect. ‘I must say, you bother me, too, Miss Lloyd. Here I am, supposed to be rescuing Eastwich from economic collapse, and I can’t get my mind off one of its production assistants… What’s a man meant to do?’ he appealed with a smile that was slow and lazy and probably intended to devastate.
But Tory was wise to him now. ‘This is all a joke to you, isn’t it?’
‘A joke?’ he reflected. ‘I wouldn’t say so. Well, no more than life is generally.’
So that was his philosophy: life was a joke. It was hardly reassuring. For her or Eastwich.
‘It comes with age,’ he added at her silence.
‘What does?’
‘The realisation that nothing should be taken too seriously, least of all life.’
‘Thank you,’ Tory replied dryly, ‘but I’d prefer to make up my own mind—when I grow up, of course.’
‘Was I being patronising?’
‘Just a shade.’
‘Sorry.’
He pulled an apologetic face and Tory found herself smiling in response.
‘Rare but definitely beautiful,’ he murmured at this momentary lapse.
Tory tried hard not to feel flattered and counteracted with a scowl.
‘Too late.’ He read her mind all too well.
‘Could you restart the lift…please?’ she said in a tight voice. ‘I’d like to go to lunch.’
‘Sure,’ he agreed to her surprise and reset the emergency stop.
The lift geared into action rather suddenly and Tory lurched forward at the same time. She was in no danger of falling but Lucas Ryecart caught her all the same.
He held her while she regained her balance. Then he went on holding her, even as the lift descended smoothly.
She wore a sleeveless shift dress. His hands were warm on her skin. She still shivered at the lightness of his touch.
She could have protested. She tried. She raised her head but the words didn’t come. It was the way he was looking at her—or looking at his own hands, smoothing over her soft skin, imagining.
When he finally lifted his eyes to hers, he didn’t hide his feelings. He desired her. Now.
He drew her to him, and she went, as if she had no volition. Only she did: she wanted him to kiss her, willed him to. Needed it. Turned into his arms. Gazed up at him, eyes wary, but expectant.
The lift came to a halt even as he cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers. By the time the door slid open, he was kissing her thoroughly and she was helplessly responding.
‘Well!’ The exclamation came from one of the two men standing on the other side.
Too late Tory sprang apart from Lucas to face Colin Mathieson and a tall, grey-haired man of indeterminate age.
Colin’s surprise became shock when Lucas turned to face them also.
The stranger, however, appeared greatly amused.
‘We’ve been looking for you, Lucas, boy,’ he drawled, ‘but obviously not in the right places.’
He chuckled and his eyes slid to Tory, openly admiring Lucas’s taste.
‘Chuck,’ Lucas responded, quite unfazed, ‘this is—’
But Tory, horrified and humiliated, wasn’t going to hang around while he introduced her to his American buddy.
‘Don’t bother!’ she snapped at him, and took off.
She heard Colin call after her, half reprimand, half concern. She heard the stranger laugh loudly, as if enjoying the situation. She heard nothing from Lucas Ryecart but she could well imagine that slow, slanting smile of satisfaction.
Yet again, he had proved his point. Good sense might tell her he was like a disease—seriously bad for her health—but she seemed to have little immunity. The only sane thing was to keep out of infection range.
She went to the staff canteen, certain he wouldn’t follow her there.
‘Where have you been?’ Simon demanded when she sat down with a spartan meal of salad and orange juice. ‘I was about to give you up for dead—or alternatively bed. I wonder if he looks at all women that way.’
‘Shut up, Simon,’ she muttered repressively.
But Simon was unstoppable. ‘Talk about smouldering. I used to think that was just an expression. Like in women’s novels: “He gave her a dark, smouldering look.” But not since I saw Ryecart—’
‘Simon!’ Tory glanced round and was relieved to see no one within listening distance. ‘You might think this sort of thing is funny but I doubt Lucas Ryecart would. You have heard of libel, I assume.’
‘Slander,’ Simon corrected. ‘I haven’t written it down…Well, not yet.’
‘What do you mean, not yet?’ Tory told herself he was joking.
Simon grinned. ‘I could scribble it on the washroom wall, I suppose. L loves T. Or is it T loves L?’ he said with a speculative air.
‘It’s neither,’ she replied, teeth gritted.
Simon arched a surprised brow at her tone, but he took the hint and changed the subject.
Tory didn’t linger over the meal but returned on her own to the office and threw herself into work so she wouldn’t have to think too hard about anything else.
Alex didn’t return from lunch—it seemed he was bent on pushing his luck—but she told herself firmly it wasn’t her problem. She worked late as usual and was emerging from the front door just as Colin Mathieson was stowing his briefcase in the back of his car.
As he was a senior executive his bay was right at the entrance and, short of going back inside, she couldn’t avoid him.
‘Tory.’ He greeted her with a friendly enough smile. ‘I’m glad I’ve run into you. I wanted a word.’
Tory waited. She didn’t prompt him. She just hoped the word wasn’t about what she suspected.
She hoped in vain and stood there, wanting the ground to swallow her up, as Colin Mathieson gave her an avuncular talk which, while skirting round the point, could basically be summed up as: You are lowly, young production assistant. He is rich, charming man of the world. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?
It was well meant, which was why Tory managed to mutter ‘yes’ and ‘no’ in the right places and somehow contain her feelings until she could scream aloud in the privacy of her own car.
Because it was galling. To be thought such a fool. Colin actually believed she was so naive that she took Lucas Ryecart seriously.
The day she did that, she really was in trouble.
CHAPTER FIVE
AFTER the lift incident, Tory was determined to avoid Lucas Ryecart. It proved easy. The American spent the next day closeted in meetings with various departments before disappearing to the States for the rest of the week.
His absence put things into perspective for Tory. While she’d been fretting over their next meeting, he’d been on a plane somewhere, with his mind on deals and dollars. Perhaps he did want her, but in the same way he’d want any grown-up toy, like a fast car or a yacht. He’d spare a little time for it, enjoy it a while, then move onto something—or someone—new.
She’d almost managed to get him out of her head when the postcard arrived with a bundle of other mail on the Saturday morning.
There was no name on it, just a picture of the Statue of Liberty on one side and the words, ‘Has he gone?’ on the other.
‘Are you all right?’ Alex noticed her strained expression across the breakfast table.
‘Yes, fine.’ She quickly shoved it in among her other letters. ‘It…it’s just a card from my mother.’
‘I thought she’d moved to Australia,’ Alex commented.
Realising he’d seen the picture side, she was committed to another lie. ‘She’s on holiday in New York.’<
br />
Alex nodded and quickly lost interest.
Tory reflected on the words in the postcard. Has he gone? How she wished!
She slid a glance at Alex, currently unsetting all the stations on her radio. He was driving her crazy.
Fanatically untidy, he left clothes on chairs, take-away cartons on tables and used towels on floors.
Tory had tried a few subtle hints, then more direct comments and he was suitably contrite—but not enough to reform.
Tory wondered if it were her. Maybe she wasn’t suited to cohabitation, even on platonic grounds.
At any rate, she longed for Alex to depart. Or had until the postcard had arrived. Now she was torn. She didn’t want to seem to be giving into Lucas Ryecart’s demands.
In the end she let fate decide it and when Alex returned later that day from an unsuccessful flat-finding mission she surprised him with her concession to stay a little longer.
‘You’re a star. I’ll try to look for a place mid-week,’ Alex promised, ‘although it might be difficult, with Ryecart returning on Monday.’
Tory pulled a face. ‘He’s definitely back?’
‘Didn’t I say?’ Alex ran on. ‘He sent a fax yesterday, setting up a meeting with our department. Monday morning at the Abbey Lodge.’
‘No, you didn’t say.’ Tory struggled to hide her irritation.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he dismissed. ‘He just wants to discuss the department’s future direction.’
‘Well, I’ll keep a low profile,’ she rejoined, ‘if it’s all the same to you.’
Alex didn’t argue. Having been bullied into sobriety by Tory, he had regained some of his old ambition. He would be too busy promoting his own career to spare much thought for Tory’s.
In fact, come Monday morning, it was a two-man contest between Simon and Alex.
Simon gained an early lead by simply turning up on time. Caught by roadworks, Alex and Tory were already fifteen minutes late when they reached the Abbey Lodge Hotel and entered the lion’s den.
Tory refused to look at the lion even when he drawled a polite, ‘Good morning,’ in her direction.
It was a small conference room, mostly taken up with an oval table and eight leather chairs. She put Simon between her and the great man, and left Alex to sit opposite and run through a quick explanation for their tardiness.
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