The Boss's Forbidden Secretary

by Lee Wilkinson

  It proved, in many ways, to be an enjoyable journey. She was making reasonably good time and the scenery en route was picturesque.

  Towards lunchtime she looked for somewhere to have a sandwich and a hot drink, but, unable to find anywhere suitable, she pressed on.

  Then just north of Blair Brechan she took the wrong road, and it was late afternoon when, with fresh snow falling, she neared her destination.

  Luing turned out to be a tiny hamlet with a backdrop of wonderful scenery. It was made up of a hill farm, five whitewashed cottages and an old grey kirk huddled together at the junction where three narrow roads converged.

  The rotting remains of what had obviously once been a signpost lay forlornly on its side, one arm in the air and partially covered by snow.

  Uncertain which road to take, Cathy was hesitating when a man wearing a heavy mac and a deerstalker appeared with a spaniel at his heels.

  Rolling down the window, she called, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Beinn Mor.’

  ‘You’ll be wanting the road straight ahead, lassie, and it’s a mile or so farther on.’

  She thanked him gratefully and set off on the final lap of her journey.

  On her left the road—little more than a lane—was edged with pine trees, and soon on her right an old stone wall came into view and began to meander alongside the road.

  After about a mile and a half she came to a pair of massive stone gateposts topped with snarling lions that seemed to forbid entrance. In contrast, the black wrought-iron gates were drawn back, open wide in welcome.

  Alongside the entrance a dark green board with gold writing announced that she had reached Dunbar Estate and the Beinn Mor Hotel and Ski Lodge.

  Snow was falling softly, gently drifting down as if it were in no particular hurry, as she drove up the winding drive. It was starting to get dark, and the long, low building that came into view was a blaze of lights.

  Though she had been warned that the Scots celebrated New Year more than Christmas, it was a lovely Christmassy scene that met her eyes.

  Yule tide lanterns on long poles had been placed at intervals, swags of greenery adorned the porch, and a tall, beautifully decorated Christmas tree stood in a massive pot to one side of the entrance.

  When she drew up on the forecourt, the heavy oak door opened and Carl—who had obviously been watching for her—appeared, a tall, slim woman with blonde hair by his side.

  As Cathy got out into the cold, crisp air that smelt of frost, he hurried over.

  For the first time since Katie had left him he looked excited and happy, and, despite the difficulties she knew lay ahead, Cathy rejoiced at the sight of him.

  ‘Darling, it’s great to see you.’ He gave her a hug and, his lips close to her ear, whispered, ‘Everything’s going wonderfully well. I hope you remembered the ring?’

  ‘Yes, I’m wearing it,’ she whispered back.

  Giving her another grateful hug, he said in his normal voice, ‘Come and meet Mrs Bowan… I’ll do the unpacking later.’

  An arm around her, he escorted her to where the blonde woman waited beneath the shelter of the porch.

  At close quarters Cathy could see that, though she wasn’t strictly speaking beautiful, she was very attractive, with good features, light blue eyes and naturally blonde hair. She was also much younger than Cathy had expected.

  Carl introduced the two of them. ‘Darling, I’d like you to meet Mrs Bowan… Margaret, this is my wife, Cathy.’

  ‘It’s very nice to meet you…Cathy.’ Then, with an apologetic smile, Margaret added, ‘I’m so sorry, but I’d got it into my head that your name was Katie.’

  So, at some time, no doubt during his first interview and before the break-up, Carl must have mentioned that his future wife was called Katie.

  Feeling horribly guilty that she was deceiving this nice, friendly-looking woman, Cathy murmured, ‘How do you do, Mrs Bowan?’

  ‘Oh, call me Margaret, please. We don’t stand on ceremony here. Now, come on in out of the cold and we’ll have a nice cup of tea before Carl takes you over to your flat.’

  Pushing open the door, on which a holly wreath entwined with scarlet ribbons hung, she ushered them into a warm, nicely decorated lobby-cum-lounge.

  Two soft leather couches, several armchairs and a couple of low tables were grouped in front of the blazing fire.

  On the left at the far end was a semicircular bar with a scattering of high stools, and on the right a polished reception desk.

  Behind the desk, going through a sheaf of papers, was a pretty young woman with dark curly hair.

  ‘This is Janet Muir,’ Margaret said. ‘She helps to run the place. I don’t know what I’d do without her… Janet, this is Cathy, Carl’s wife…’

  Once again Cathy cringed inwardly, but, murmuring an acknowledgement to the friendly greeting, she returned Janet’s smile.

  ‘Have you time to join us for a cup of tea?’ Margaret asked the other woman.

  Janet shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’d better finish what I’m doing.’

  Opening a door to the right that said ‘Private’, Margaret led the way into a small but cosy room where a teatray had been set on a low table in front of the hearth.

  ‘This is our sitting room, and through there is our bedroom, a bathroom and a small kitchen. As you can guess, it’s a bit cramped.

  ‘My brother, who owns the Dunbar Estate, would be only too happy for us to live in the main house, but when the lodge and the log cabins are full, as they are at the moment, we feel that we need to be here on the spot, just in case there are any problems. Do take your coat off and sit down.’

  Waving them to a couch in front of a cheerful fire, she sat down opposite and smiled at them both, before asking, ‘So what kind of journey did you have?’

  Her mouth so dry with nerves that she could hardly speak, Cathy managed, ‘It was very good on the whole. Though I was rather surprised to run into snow quite so soon.’

  Reaching to pour the tea, Margaret said, ‘Yes, we’ve had several quite heavy falls already this season, which of course is good for the skiing, if not for travelling… Sugar?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  When she had handed them a cup of tea each, she offered a plate of homemade cake. ‘Janet makes the best fruitcake you’ve ever tasted.’

  Unsure whether she could swallow it, Cathy declined, but, with an appreciative murmur, Carl accepted a piece.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing, S—’ On the verge of saying Sis, he pulled himself up short and changed it to, ‘Sweetheart’.

  ‘It certainly smells delicious,’ Cathy said and, wishing she was anywhere but where she was, added, ‘But I’m not really hungry.’

  Margaret smiled at her. ‘In that case, as we’re all invited to have dinner at Dunbar tonight, it would make sense not to risk spoiling your meal.’

  Then in a heartfelt voice she added, ‘We’re so pleased and relieved to get a nice married couple like you. Last season was an absolute nightmare. Unfortunately, André, the ski instructor we hired, proved to be a real Casanova. We had several complaints from women, and one from an irate husband, who found André and his wife together in one of the ski huts. She swore that André had lured her there, and her husband threatened us with legal action.’

  Refilling their cups, she went on, ‘We decided there and then that in the future we would only consider a married couple. So earlier this year, before the season started, we took on a couple who said they were married and gave their names as Mr and Mrs Fray. But we soon discovered that they weren’t married at all, and each considered themselves free to roam, so we felt justified in asking them to leave…’

  Her face burning, Cathy didn’t know where to look. This was proving even worse than she had imagined.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘OF COURSE,’ Margaret went on, ‘the skiing proper is just getting underway, but so far things seem to be going reasonably well. Though we had som
ething of a scare last night when a couple out on a day’s cross-country skiing went missing. Thank the Lord they were eventually found safe and sound…

  ‘But here I am keeping you when you’re probably dying to be alone… Your flat is over at the main house. Carl has already settled in, so hopefully it should soon start to feel like home.

  ‘There’ll be pre-dinner drinks in the study at seven, which should give you just about enough time to unpack and get settled in.’

  Only too anxious to go, Cathy rose to her feet and, with a murmur of thanks for the tea, pulled on her coat and headed for the door, followed by Carl.

  Feeling mean and despicable, she wished heartily that she had never agreed to this deception.

  But if she hadn’t come up to Scotland she would never have met Ross Dalgowan. And meeting him meant more to her than she could say. Just those few hours they had spent together had changed her life and given her a bright and shining hope for the future.

  This time the foyer was empty and, as they reached the porch door and went out into the falling snow, Carl muttered, ‘I’m sorry, Sis. I could tell you were loathing every minute.’

  ‘I just feel so bad about it,’ Cathy said helplessly. ‘She’s such a nice woman and I hate having to deceive her.’

  ‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’ Carl assured her as they made their way to the car, which was already covered with snow. ‘But, having once started, we’ve just got to carry it through… Now, you jump in, and I’ll drive.’

  Having helped Cathy in and slammed the door, he cleared snow from the wing mirrors before sliding into the driver’s seat.

  Reaching to fasten his seat belt, and noticing her unhappy face, he begged quietly, ‘Please, Sis, this chance means so much to me. I know already that the job is exactly what I’ve been hoping for, and if it wasn’t for having to deceive people I like, I’d be on top of the world…

  ‘Believe me, as soon as they’ve got to know me, and I’ve proved that I can do the job and that I’m no Casanova, I’ll be more than happy to tell them the truth.’

  ‘Suppose when you do they’re so angry at the way you deceived them that they tell you to leave?’

  ‘Having come this far, that’s a chance I’ve got to take. I hope they won’t. I already love it here. But if they do then we’ll get other jobs, find somewhere else to live. Until then, I’m relying on you to support me.’

  With a sigh, she told him, ‘Very well, I’ll do my best, but I’m no good at living a lie.’

  ‘Neither am I, really,’ he said as the engine sprang into life. ‘I nearly gave the game away just now by calling you Sis…’

  The wipers pushing aside the accumulated snow, and their lights making a golden tunnel through the white, they set off up a steady incline, the four-wheel drive coping well with the loose snow.

  ‘But once we’re over this initial period of meeting people and settling in,’ he went on, ‘and we’re both doing the jobs we came here to do, it should prove to be a great deal easier.’

  She could only hope so, Cathy thought and, in an effort to drop the uncomfortable subject, asked, ‘How far is it to the big house?’

  ‘Dunbar itself is about a mile up the drive, but if you’re on foot and go out the back way there’s a shortcut through the coppice that only takes a matter of minutes.’

  As they reached the top of the rise and turned a corner to begin their descent, Cathy saw lights gleaming through the trees.

  In her mind’s eye she had formed a picture of ‘the big house’ as being grey and square and dour, stark and uncompromising in its ugliness.

  She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  Through the dusk and the falling snowflakes she could just make out an old grey house cradled lovingly in a snowy fold of the hills.

  Long and low, it had a hotchpotch of crooked chimneys and gable ends, mullioned windows and creeper-covered walls.

  It was picturesque and beautiful, and, staring at it, entranced, Cathy murmured, ‘My house.’

  ‘What?’ Carl asked, startled.

  ‘The house,’ she explained. ‘Seeing it in the falling snow like this reminded me of a house I once saw in an old paperweight snowstorm.’

  The snowstorm had charmed and captivated her, and now she felt the same kind of enchantment as they approached the house and drew up near a side entrance with a glowing lantern over the doorway.

  Carl jumped out and, having taken one of Cathy’s bigger suitcases from the boot, handed her her overnight bag.

  Then fishing in his pocket, he produced a keyring with three Yale keys on it and proceeded to unlock the door, which opened into a hall with a stone fireplace and a stone-slabbed floor, smoothly polished by many feet.

  ‘At one time this was the servants’ hall. But these days there’s only a handful of staff to run things.’

  Though no fire burnt in the huge grate, it was anything but cold, and when Cathy remarked on the fact, Carl explained that the entire house had discreet central heating.

  There were several doors leading off, and, opening the nearest one, he remarked, ‘Oh, while I think about it, this door doesn’t always close properly. Odd times the latch fails to click into place…’

  He led the way into their ground-floor flat and, switching on the lights, went on, ‘By the way, we’ll be quite private. Even the maid doesn’t come in to clean unless she’s specifically asked to. So it means that no one is going to know we have separate rooms.’

  Cathy, who had been wondering about that, gave an inward sigh of relief.

  ‘Mrs Fife, the housekeeper, got everything ready before I moved in—she even stocked the fridge and the freezer. When I thanked her, she mentioned that if there’s anything else you need to go straight to her. She’s known to be something of a dragon, but I’ve managed to charm her.’

  ‘I dare say it was your natural modesty that appealed to her.’

  He grinned. ‘Come on, I’ll show you round before I unpack the rest of our stuff…’

  The flat, she found, was spacious and attractive, with long, leaded windows, white walls, black beams and polished oak floorboards.

  There was a pleasant living room with modern, comfortable-looking furniture, a well-equipped kitchen with a back door that led out to a small snow-covered patio, and two en suite bedrooms—the first of which Carl was already occupying.

  Carrying her case into the second, he went on, ‘Incidentally, we both have a set of keys—one for the door we came in by and two for the flat itself. You’ll find your set on your dressing table…’

  When Cathy had had a chance to look around, he asked a shade anxiously, ‘So, what do you think?’

  Knowing how much he wanted her to like it, she tried hard to sound enthusiastic as she told him, ‘It’s very nice. A lot nicer than I’d expected.’

  ‘I hoped you’d be happy here.’ Looking vastly relieved, he went to finish emptying the car.

  While she unpacked and put her clothes in the wardrobe and chest of drawers, Cathy sighed. She could have been happy in this lovely old house, but the fact that she and Carl were here under false pretences took all the pleasure out of it.

  At ten minutes to seven, freshly showered and dressed in a plain navy-blue sheath that clung lovingly to her slender curves, evening sandals and pearl drops in her neat lobes, Cathy emerged from her bedroom to find Carl was ready and waiting for her.

  Widening her eyes, she commented, ‘My, but don’t you look fine!’

  Darkly handsome in a dinner jacket and black bow tie, he grinned at her. ‘I must say, you don’t look so bad yourself.’

  ‘Gee, thanks.’

  ‘I could rephrase that if you like and tell you you look gorgeous.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ she told him quizzically. ‘I’ve no doubt your first comment was a lot nearer the mark… By the way,’ she went on, as he closed the door of the flat behind them, ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s Mrs Bowan’s brother like?’

  ‘I haven�
��t met him, but Margaret’s told me a lot about him. I gather he’s a businessman who at the moment spends most of his time either in London or travelling…’

  As they headed for the study, he went on, ‘Two or three years ago, when his father died, he inherited the whole of the Dunbar Estate along with a title he never uses. To help Dunbar pay its way, he decided to have some log cabins built and to turn Beinn Mor into a holiday complex in summer and a ski lodge in winter.’ Reaching the end of a broad corridor, they went through a stone archway into a baronial-type hall with panelled walls, chandeliers, a huge stone fireplace and a graceful dark oak staircase curving up to a minstrels’ gallery.

  ‘This is the main hall,’ he told her, ‘and just through here is the library-cum-study-cum-office.’

  Carl opened one of a pair of double doors and ushered her into a handsome book-lined room with a burgundy carpet and heavy velvet curtains that had been drawn against the night.

  Several soft leather armchairs, a couch and an oval coffee table had been grouped in front of a blazing log fire, and to one side a drinks trolley held an assortment of bottles and decanters and crystal glasses.

  In front of the windows was a long desk with a state-of-the-art computer and printer and all the latest office equipment. At right angles to it was a smaller desk, kept clear except for a laptop. Each had a leather chair.

  The man who stepped forward to greet them was tall and sturdily built, with a pleasant, open face, brown hair, already thinning a little on top, and bright hazel eyes. He looked to be in his late thirties.

  Holding out his hand, he introduced himself. ‘I’m Robert Munro, the estate manager. You must be Carl?’

  As the two men shook hands, Carl said, ‘That’s right, and this is my wife, Cathy.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you both,’ Robert said with grave courtesy.

  Liking him on sight, Cathy held out her hand with a smile and a murmured greeting.

  At that moment a door at the other end of the room opened and a little group of people came in.

  Janet and Margaret, chatting cheerfully together, were accompanied by a dark-haired, good-looking man of medium height who shook hands with Cathy and introduced himself as Kevin Bowan.