Secretary Wife

by Rachel Lindsay

  From Back Cover…

  Laura had worked for Carl Anderson for three years, and had loved him since the beginning. But it was clear that he saw her as nothing but an efficient secretary —and when he announced his engagement to the beautiful Rosemary Carlton, that would seem to be that as far as Laura was concerned. But when, shortly before the wedding, Carl was crippled in an accident and Rosemary walked out on him, he asked Laura to marry him. She gladly accepted, willing to take Carl on any terms at all. Had her chance of happiness come at last —or, knowing Carl still loved Rosemary, was she heading for disaster?

  Secretary Wife

  By

  Rachel Lindsay

  CHAPTER ONE

  LAURA PEARSON finished the last line of the letter she was typing, pulled it from the machine and set it on the large pile that lay beside her desk. Only when this had been done did she glance at her watch. A quarter to four. Mr Anderson should have left the airport by now and be on his way to London.

  From somewhere in the distance came the sound of a hammer as one of the office boys fixed a Wel­come Home banner across the downstairs foyer. She herself had not made any preparations to greet him, knowing that although he would appreciate the pleasure shown by the rest of his staff, he would expect her to be too sensible to bother with such nonsense. Yet how much she would have liked to show her delight at having him back after a two months' absence in Africa.

  Two months. It was the longest Carl Anderson had ever been away from the office. Originally he had planned it as a four weeks' trip, but this had soon extended to eight, and had ended with a brief stay in Rhodesia which had not been planned in his itinerary. But now, after thousands of miles of travel, he was coming home.

  She jumped up from her desk and went into his office. It was too austere to be called his home, yet this was what it was to him. He had an elegant apartment in an expensive block near Hyde Park, but he used it only to sleep in, preferring to spend his waking hours either here or on the various sites of the buildings he was constructing. She crossed the grey-carpeted floor to his leather-topped desk. How wonderful it would be to come in here and see him sitting behind it in his leather arm­chair, the Venetian blinds partially drawn behind him to monitor the sun, though even the muted rays could not diminish his silver blond head and massive shoulders.

  People who saw Carl Anderson for the first time noticed his blondness and size before anything else. Hard on this came awareness of his soft voice and the light-footed way he walked: with the grace of a leopard and the same suggestion of animal strength. Danish by name and parentage, he had been born in England, where both his parents had taught at a south coast university. Despite a reluct­ance to follow in their academic footsteps, he had nonetheless qualified as an architect, but their death—within a few months of his graduation—had set him morally free and he had decided to travel.

  Occasionally he had spoken to Laura of this time in his life, giving the impression that they had been happy years spent in diversified occupations: sheep-farming in New Zealand, opal prospecting in Australia, lumberjacking in Canada. This last job had led to work with a construction company in Banff, where he had soon become foreman and had then been offered the position of manager. Before making up his mind whether or not to settle permanently abroad, he had returned to England for a visit. He had found it small and restricting and was on the verge of leaving when a friend of his from university days, who was now a high-powered tycoon, had asked him to design and build a fac­tory for him. From this had sprung the Anderson Construction Company, and in the eight years since its formation it had become renowned for its high quality work and competitive pricing.

  Laura had worked here for five years, the last two as secretary to Carl Anderson. He was an easy em­ployer providing one was totally dedicated to one's work, but he had no patience with anyone who put pleasure before the completion of a job or used the lateness of the hour as an excuse to leave some­thing unfinished. Yet even when he was angry he never lost his temper in a normal way; instead his very quietness could shrivel one's bones. She had personally never experienced his anger, but had seen several members of the staff reduced to pale facsimiles of themselves because of it. But his hon­esty and integrity—in a profession where such attri­butes were rare—made people eager to work for him.

  The sound of applause told Laura her employer had arrived and she sped back to her desk, forcing herself to remain there when all she longed to do was to rush out and throw herself into his arms. How astonished he would be if she did! She smoothed her hair nervously and clasped her hands in front of her: a picture of the super-efficient secretary he considered her to be.

  'Hello, Laura. You don't look as if the strain of managing without me was too much for you.'

  Laura blinked her eyes quickly. Carl Anderson had come into the room in his usual quiet way and was standing directly in front of her, as big and broad-shouldered as she remembered, his hair bleached even paler by the tropical sun and his skin so bronzed that his grey eyes looked silver.

  'I won't ask if you missed me,' he went on, 'because you look far less harassed than usual!'

  'I never look harassed,' she said automatically, and heard him chuckle.

  'I knew that would rouse you! You are the calm­est secretary I've ever had.'

  He went into his office and she followed him, watching as he walked to the centre of the room and stood there breathing in the atmosphere. In some indefinable way he looked different. Perhaps it was because he too looked less harassed. There was a lift to his mouth that suggested happy thoughts and a spring to his step that betokened lightness of mood. He went to his desk and sat down in his chair.

  'You don't know how good it is to be back,' he murmured.

  Laura sat in front of him: her usual place when she had things to tell him. 'I filed all the letters that arrived in your absence, but I was able to deal with half of them myself. Some I gave to Mr Durban,' she named the Assistant Managing Director, 'but some have had to wait until your return. I'll fetch them for you.' She went to stand, but his hand lifted and stopped her.

  'No, Laura, not for the moment.' He leaned his head back against the leather. 'What a taskmistress you are! Don't you realise I've returned home after a long absence and that the prodigal son should be welcomed with a feast, not with work?'

  'You've never wanted a feast before!'

  'People change,' he said mysteriously.

  He lowered his lids and she saw they were dark with fatigue. Looking at him closely she realised that his tan had fooled her, for the bronze skin around his eyes was marred by wrinkles and a pulse beat noticeably in his left temple—the only sign he ever gave of stress or fatigue. Yet he had broken his return flight for a four-day holiday in Rhodesia. She bit back a sigh. Obviously his rest there had been a frenetic round of amusement.

  'I'm engaged to be married, Laura,' he said quietly. 'You're the first person to know.'

  Laura's breath caught in her throat and she was glad she was sitting down, otherwise she would have fallen. Even so she could not hide her shock and, seeing it, he smiled.

  'I suppose you've always thought of me as too old and wise to succumb to a woman?'

  'I've never considered you old,' she said crisply, glad her feelings were well concealed.

  'I know it will come as a surprise to everyone.' He was speaking again, more to himself than her, and the smile that turned up the corners of his wide mouth was more pronounced. 'Mind you, it was a surprise to me too. But when you see Rosemary you'll understand why I fell in love with her. She'll be joining me here in a couple of weeks.'

  'Joining you?' Laura echoed.

  'From Rhodesia. I met her in Cape Town and was with her for most of my trip. It was because of Rosemary that
I stopped off in Salisbury. I wanted to meet her parents and persuade them I wasn't too ancient for their daughter.' His smile broadened. 'In the event, they couldn't have been nicer.'

  Why shouldn't they be? Laura thought bitterly. What parent would object to a handsome and ex­tremely wealthy son-in-law? And thirty-five wasn't old, despite what he had said about being ancient. She tried to imagine his fiancée, but could not bring an image to mind. Since working for him she had met many of his girl friends, but meeting one was as good as meeting them all, for they were cast from the same mould: beautiful, sophisticated and brittle. None had remained with him long enough to make any impact on her, though several had tried to enlist her aid in the hope of staying in his life a bit longer. She had been wined and dined in smart restaurants in order to be pumped of all information about him, but had remained her usual diplomatic self and had always returned to the office to tell Carl the outcome of these meetings. Together they would laugh over it and he would instruct her to send the girl an expensive bouquet of flowers as compensation for a meal wasted, and would then regretfully talk of boredom and look through his ad­dress book again. Now it seemed there would be no more address book. The unknown Rosemary had, in a matter of weeks, succeeded in capturing a man who had been chased for years by countless women.

  'Well, Laura,' he questioned, 'you haven't con­gratulated me yet. Or does your silence indicate disapproval?'

  'It isn't my business to disapprove, Mr Anderson. You merely took me by surprise. Of course I con­gratulate you.'

  'From your frigid tone of voice, you sound as if you're congratulating Rosemary for capturing me!' Laura blushed and his eyes crinkled with amuse­ment. 'I know you're biased in my favour, Laura, but when you meet Rosemary you'll see why she bowled me over.' He swivelled round in his chair and stared through the window at the traffic stream­ing far below along the grey ribbon roads that wound through Hyde Park. 'For the first time, all the work I've done, every effort I've made, seems worthwhile. My life suddenly has a meaning. Can you understand what I'm trying to say?'

  She understood him only too well, and was glad he did not understand her in the same way. But then the single-mindedness which he had shown throughout his working life also characterised the way he dealt with his personal one. He had no time to look below the surface of a relationship. If it be­came too difficult he ended it; if it became too easy, it bored him. Rosemary must be very special indeed if she had made him realise how empty his life had been without her.

  'When will you be getting married, Mr Ander­son?'

  'I want to find a house first. Rosemary wouldn't be happy living in an apartment. She's used to a big garden and dogs and horses.'

  'You'll be looking for somewhere in the country, then?'

  'That would be ideal, but unfortunately it isn't practical. I'll get a place in the country for week­ends, but the first thing is to find a town house. I thought of Dulwich or Highgate—somewhere within half an hour of here. I'll give you all the requirements and you can get on to it right away.'

  'Wouldn't your fiancée prefer to do her own house-hunting?' Laura asked.

  'She doesn't know London and she's more than happy to leave it to me. And I'm happy to leave it to you!' He turned from the window and gave Laura a singularly sweet smile. 'I have no hesita­tion in relying on your judgment.'

  With a murmur of thanks she stood up. 'If you don't want to do any work, I suggest you give me the particulars of the house. Then I can start tele­phoning the agents.'

  The speed with which he rattled off the size, situation and type of house he wanted showed he had given it a great deal of thought, and she could not stop a spasm of jealousy. Hard on this came a deep shame for allowing her emotions to get the better of her. Carl Anderson had never, by word or gesture, led her to believe she meant anything more to him than a highly prized secretary, and she had only herself to blame for falling in love with him.

  To begin with, his numerous affairs had caused her a great deal of misery, but as one girl followed another, she became used to his flirtations and eventually reached the stage where she was in­different to the women who filled his life, finding safety in numbers and pursuing the hope—faint yet always there—that one day he would wake up to the knowledge that the meaningful love for which he was searching was in his own office. Tears of self-pity pricked her eyes and she went quickly to her own office before he saw them.

  At Carl Anderson's instigation, Laura handed all her office duties to her own assistant and devoted her days to house-hunting. She had never known there were so many beautiful homes available in London, though each of them seemed to have some flaw that made it unsuitable for her employer's re­quirements. But ten days after she began her search, she believed she had found the one she wanted, and a phone call to the office brought him immediately to see it.

  Confidently she led him from room to room: the two large reception ones which could comfortably hold two hundred people; the smaller library; the morning room and the airy kitchen that not even wooden draining boards and cracked sinks could spoil, and then up the curving flight of stairs to the six main bedrooms that overlooked a two-acre gar­den and the Heath.

  'It all needs a lot of alteration,' he muttered.

  'Do you think so?' she asked, deflated.

  'Bathrooms for every bedroom,' he explained, 'and a servants' wing above the garage, with its own entrance. And a proper nursery suite, too.' The words must have pleased him, for he repeated them, and Laura turned away to hide her bitterness.

  'I'm sorry you don't like the house, Mr Anderson. I will continue to look.'

  'Don't be silly, Laura, I like it very much. I never expected to find a house I could just walk into.' He went to the window and looked at the view. 'Rose­mary will find this nearly as good as living in the country. I'll build a swimming pool, of course. She's used to an open-air life.'

  'She'll find it different from Rhodesia.'

  'She has lived here before,' he explained. 'Two years ago she was in London for several months. If I'd met her then, I could have saved myself two years.' He sighed and turned back into the room. 'Not that she would have been ready to settle down then. She's very young, you know. Young and gay.'

  'How young?' Laura asked.

  'Twenty-three.'

  'Oh.'

  'What does the "oh" mean?'

  'You give the impression that Miss Carlton is a child. Twenty-three isn't all that young.'

  'It is to me.'

  'I'm only twenty-five,' she replied, and had the satisfaction of seeing him look astonished.

  'I thought you were much older.'

  'Thanks!'

  'No offence,' he said quickly as they walked down­stairs to his car. 'Put it down to your super-efficiency and the fact that you never flap when there's an emergency.'

  'I have had better compliments in my time!'

  He gave her another surprised look and Laura warned herself to guard her tongue; unless she did, he might guess the truth.

  'Get in,' he said, opening the car door. 'I'll take you home.'

  He had done so many times before when she had worked late for him and, as always when she sat close to him, she was intensely aware of him. He was very much like his car, whose full strength was never fully disclosed though one knew it was there, ready and waiting. He drove with quiet concentra­tion, his lids half lowered, so that one noticed how thick his eyelashes were. Even sitting behind the wheel he looked the six feet three that he was, with the build of an athlete and faintly rugged features: a wide mouth and square jaw, a decisive-looking nose and high forehead. His hands were a surprise, being narrow and long-fingered and as smooth as if they had done no manual work, which she knew was untrue. They were the hands of an artist. She pulled her eyes away from them. The buildings Carl Anderson designed were artistic creations in every sense: exquisite monuments of man's ability to form stone, concrete and glass into glorious shapes.

  The car stopped outside the rambling Victorian h
ouse where Laura had a small flat.

  'Thank you for bringing me home,' she said, get­ting out of the car.

  'Thank you for finding me my home,' he replied. 'You must be our first guest.'

  With a smile he drove off, and she watched until the car disappeared before she took out her latch­key and opened the front door.

  'You must be our first guest.' The words were meant as a gesture of kindness, but they sounded the death knell of her hopes.

  Lucky, lucky Rosemary!

  CHAPTER TWO

  HAVING made up his mind to buy the house, Carl Anderson chafed at the delay in making it his own. He drew up plans for the alterations before its pur­chase was completed, and Laura marvelled that he felt no obligation to discuss any of them with his fiancée.

  'Rosemary is happy to leave everything to me,' he explained when she voiced her fears one afternoon as she went with him to the house to make further notes of all the things he wished done. 'She isn't used to taking responsibility,' he continued. 'She has lived a sheltered life and has always had every­thing done for her.'

  'She'll find it different living here!'

  'I hope not. I have an excellent housekeeper who looks after my flat, but I thought of advertising for a married couple as well,'

  'You'll need more than a couple to take care of this house,' Laura said, glancing round the huge drawing-room.

  'Everything will be as labour-saving as possible: air-conditioning to cut down on the dust; wall-to-wall carpeting in all the upstairs rooms and parquet floors and rugs down here. One should be able to manage with three full-time staff.'

  'Are you asking me or telling me?' Laura said so drily that he grinned.

  'I suppose I was telling you, but now I think about it, perhaps I'd better ask you!'

  'It depends how much Miss Carlton is prepared to do.'

  'I don't want her to do anything,' he said in­stantly. 'She loves riding and swimming and tennis and I don't want her to worry about domestic chores. I'll leave you to work out the staff we need and to find them.'