by Carol Gregor
'Get another job.'
'Oh, yes. How?' Her eyes flashed. 'I've got no references, remember. And what do I say when they ask me why I left my last job?'
'Tell them the truth. That your boss pawed and harassed you until you couldn't stand it another minute.'
She shuddered, remembering her miserable months at the West End advertising agency that she had walked out of last week. She had left Yorkshire and Aunt Jenny with such high hopes of making a new life in London, but it had all gone terribly wrong. She hated being a secretary, and hated even more having to fend off the hot-breathed attentions of a boss who clearly believed that when a girl said 'no' she really meant 'yes.'
'They wouldn't believe me.'
'Yes, they would, easily,' said Alice, crisply, her eyes going over her friend's tumble of auburn curls, her sparkling green eyes and dazzling smile. 'You've got to toughen up if you want to make it in the city.'
'I don't want to toughen up! I'm not sure I even want to make it in the city! I hate sitting behind a keyboard all day. It makes me feel so claustrophobic.'
'Well, what do you want to do?' Alice was, clearly getting exasperated.
'I want to go to Africa!' Frankie lay back on the sofa and shut her eyes. The feeling was like a tempest inside her, a storm of longing unlocked by the uncaring Cal Fenton.
'With that insufferable man?'
'He'd be a small price to pay.'
'You've just run away from one arrogant male boss, remember.'
'I can't imagine Cal Fenton lunging for a quick fumble by the coffee machine.' No, she thought, he'd click his fingers and expect any woman to come running.
Alice was blunt. 'Well, he obviously isn't going to employ you, so you might as well forget it. And, meanwhile, I hate to remind you of real life, but there's the rent to pay by Thursday.'
Frankie woke up late the next morning and knew from the silence that Alice had already left for work. She showered quickly and pulled on the same clothes she had worn the night before. Then, because it was a hot day, she brushed her hair up into a casual topknot and slipped on a pair of Indian sandals. The sensible dress and shoes she had worn yesterday were bundled unceremoniously together and thrust to the back of her wardrobe.
Then she made herself a coffee and sat at the kitchen table frowning, trying to work out how she had landed up in the mess she was in now.
Of course she had never really wanted to be a secretary. Back home in Yorkshire she had always preferred to be out in the fresh air, helping on the local farms. But Aunt Jenny, in her quietly insistent way, had outlined all the advantages of a diploma in office skills, and, in deference to her guardian, whom, she knew, had had to put up with so much from the wayward orphan landed in her charge, she had meekly taken the required college courses.
For a time she'd worked in a legal office in Skipton, but the sleepy local town had soon made her restless and she had thought that London would ease the cramped, stifling feeling inside her.
Yet it hadn't worked out like that. She'd made new friends, particularly Alice, and had enjoyed living in her own flat, but typing in London had been just like typing in Skipton, with added complications, and two months after coming here she had had to ring her aunt and confess that she had just walked out of her first job in the middle of the week with neither her wages nor a reference.
Dear Aunt Jenny had uttered no word of criticism, but had simply sent her an emergency cheque and a brief letter saying she quite understood why she left, and that quite by chance she's just heard; through a former colleague of her father's, of a temporary job that might tide her over the next few weeks. And then had come the terse summons to see Cal Fenton.
Frankie sighed. Her aunt, bless her, had tried her best, and she was glad she had decided to make a surprise visit home to Yorkshire for her birthday this weekend. She looked forward to seeing her face when she handed over the crystal rose-bowl she had been saving up for ever since she had come down to London.
The rose-bowl.
She had bought it yesterday on her way to Cal Fenton's house, since her route had taken her right past the front door of Harrods. She could remember the way the heavy bag had cut into her hand. She turned this way, then that, but she knew as soon as she thought about it that she had not brought it back to the flat with her. It must still be sitting where she had left it, on the carpet in Cal Fenton's coldly opulent front room.
'Hell and damnation!' The phrase rose from somewhere to her lips. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was to trek back to that gloomy house, but the bowl had cost fifty pounds and there was no way she could afford to replace it.
She hesitated, eyeing the phone. Perhaps Elaine Pye would send it on for her, if she explained where she had left it. But then she would have to arrive in Yorkshire empty-handed. And although her own heart felt heavy with disappointment, she had looked forward to the pleasure that she knew would light up her aunt's face when the latter unwrapped her present and held the exquisite cut glass up to the light.
So it was with bitter determination that she again found herself ringing the bell of Cal Fenton's house. A woman who was hoovering the stairs opened the door immediately. 'They're in there.' She nodded her head towards the drawing-room and bent back to her work. Frankie marched towards the door, then hesitated.
Cal leaned with one elbow on the mantelpiece. She could see his look in the mirror and it was angry and dark. Elaine Pye stood in front of him, her legs planted stubbornly.'
'I don't care, Cal,' she was saying. 'You either have that cholera injection renewed, or I leave.'
'God dammit, I've told you. There's no time. I've got to be at the Sunday Globe all tomorrow, then I've got that North Sea trip on Thursday.'
'This afternoon, then.'
'You know I've got to get those Malaysian prints processed. I haven't got time to go running off to the doctor's.'
'Then I'll resign.'
He eyed her blackly. Neither of them noticed Frankie's slight figure in the doorway.
'Well, all right. I'll do a deal. If you get someone round here this afternoon, I'll stop work long enough to let him stick his poisonous dart in me. Although I must be immune to just about everything by now. And why you persist in believing those things work, I'll never know.'
'I know that cholera's about the only thing you haven't had—and that could just be because I've made you keep your injections up.'
He sighed and put a hand up to his damaged shoulder, easing it. 'What on earth am I going to do about finding an assistant, Elaine? Those lads the agency sent round were hopeless.'
'I've told you. Your problem's not finding an assistant, it's finding one by Friday. Can't you delay your flight?'
He shook his head. 'London's stifling me. Anyway, I've got to get on with that wildlife job. I'm supposed to be in Iraq next month.'
'Can't you borrow someone from one of the newspapers?'
He shook his head. 'They're run on a shoestring. They haven't got staff to spare.'
'Find someone out there? Someone local?'
'I may have to. God knows who.' He thumped his fist on the marble mantelpiece. 'Why the hell couldn't Mike O'Shea have fathered a son? Then my problems would have been over.'
'Maybe he would have done if he'd lived a bit longer!'
They both turned, astonished, at the sound of Frankie's voice as she marched into the room.
'Who the hell --?' Cal's eyes narrowed. 'Oh, it's you.' His gaze ran down over her loosely brushed topknot, her skimpy top and exuberant skirt. She knew she looked young and tanned and healthy, and met his eyes levelly as he scrutinised her, but she still felt a jolt as their gazes snagged.
'"My, what a change is here",' he quoted slowly, and a faint teasing warmth crept into his grey look.
'What do you mean?'
'I mean you look quite different from yesterday. Yesterday you looked like a librarian.' His mouth crooked at her.
'Can I help you?' Elaine Pye cut in quickly, and her look was
certainly not warmer. Her mouth set in clear disapproval as she looked at Frankie's bare midriff and long, slender legs.
'I left a bag here yesterday. Over by the window. It's a present for my aunt. I came to pick it up.'
'I wouldn't have recognised you,' Cal said.
'Yesterday was my aunt's idea—my interview outfit.'
'And this is the real you?'
She shrugged. 'I wear what I feel comfortable in.'
Suddenly he levered himself away from the mantelpiece and came over to her. He took her chin in his thumb and forefinger and pushed her head this way, then that, examining her. She smelt a musky clean smell from his skin and saw the dark shadow of his beard. His eyes scrutinised her face with a gaze as impersonal as a camera lens. 'You look exactly like your father, you know. It shows with your hair off your face like that. Same eyes. Same chin. Probably the same dreadful sense of humour.'
She found she needed to swallow as he dropped his hand, and her own hand went up to rub at the place where his fingers had held her tightly. 'I don't know about that. I can't seem to find much to laugh about at the moment.'
'Oh?' He raised a casual eyebrow. 'You've got youth, health, beauty—maybe even brains for all I know. That would be enough for most people.'
'You can't live off youth and health. They don't pay the bills.'
'And you can't get a job? I find that hard to believe.'
'Oh, I can get one all right! I can get hundreds. The trouble is they're all the same. Typing and filing and dictation. And who wants to work in an office all day --?'
Beside her she heard Elaine Pye snort disapprovingly, and she turned to her. 'I'm sorry if that sounds rude, but it's just how I feel.' She swung back to Cal. 'I get in in the morning, and by coffee-time I feel as if the walls are closing in on me. I feel so restless all the time I could scream, but no one seems to understand! I often think there must be something wrong with me. I can't seem to accept what everyone else seems perfectly happy with: the daily routine, the same thing over and over again. I want so much more but I don't know how to get it!'
His eyes held hers. He seemed mildly amused by her outburst. 'It isn't a crime to want more.' He turned to his secretary. 'Elaine, I think I can hear the phone --'
Elaine crossed the room, found the Harrods carrier-bag and dumped it down at her feet like an invitation to leave. 'I believe this is what you came for. Would you mind letting yourself out?'
Frankie turned to watch her depart. 'I've offended her, haven't I?'
'Probably. She is a secretary, after all.'
'I didn't mean to.'
'It doesn't matter. She's very easily offended—and very easily gets over it again.'
'I tend to speak my mind.'
'It's an O'Shea habit that I remember very well. Your father once told me I had the arrogance of an elephant and the ability of a mouse.'
She laughed.
He turned and began to pick up some sheets of contact prints. 'He was right, too; it's been one of the greatest regrets of my life that he hasn't been here to tell.' He looked at her and suddenly his voice was deadly serious. 'I owed your father a lot. More than anyone in the world knows. I always wished I could have repaid that debt.'
She hesitated, then burst out impulsively, 'You could—by giving me the job.'
He looked up sharply.
'I heard you talking just now. I know you haven't found anyone. I'm strong and willing. I'd work hard. And I'd love to see Africa. I've been thinking about it all night.'
'But I explained the circumstances to you --'
She shrugged scornfully. 'Things have changed. Women do everything men do and more. I could do the job as well as any man.'
'And you think your father would thank me for hauling you off alone into bush --'
'My father was very unconventional. He never bothered about appearances, only the truth of things. If you're worrying what people might think. . .'
'It's not something that's ever handicapped me so far,' he said drily. 'But even so --'
'Even so, what? I know I could do the job as well as anyone.'
He straightened up and looked at her, his eyes calculating. There was a long pause. She held her breath, wondering what he was thinking behind that dark, direct stare. Then he rapped out, 'Could you drive on rough tracks?'
'I've been driving a Land Rover on the local farm since I was fifteen. I helped with the lambing every Easter.'
'And suppose I had to leave you alone for a night or so? Camping in the bush?'
She lifted her chin. 'I haven't got any experience. But I'd manage. I learn fast.'
There was another long pause. She scarcely breathed while his eyes scoured her.
'You know,' he said slowly, 'I'm beginning to think you would.'
'Then give me a chance.'
He raked a hand through his hair. 'It's not what I intended. Taking a little convent girl with me.'
'I'm not a little convent girl! I never fitted in there either! That was another of Aunt Jenny's ideas.'
His grey eyes scoured her.
'You said you wanted to repay my father,' she urged. 'My father wanted me to be happy. And I'm not! Not at all. My aunt—she's my guardian—is a lovely person, but she just doesn't understand the sort of person I am. She wants me to be a nice, sweet, normal sort of girl and I'm not any of those things! She wants me to wear twin-sets and do a little job in the local town until I get married and settle down, but 1 don't want to settle down!'
'What do you want, then?'
She lifted her chin and said stubbornly, 'Right now I want to come to Africa with you.'
He stared back at her until she almost quailed. 'Tell me,' he said slowly, 'why do I feel I'm being bullied?'
Because you are, she thought silently, but she only looked at him, not speaking. He held her wide-eyed, stubborn gaze for what seemed like eternity. She forced herself not to look away.
'All right, then,' he snapped eventually. 'You're on. But don't blame me if it doesn't work out.'
CHAPTER THREE
Frankie could feel Cal's dark eyes on her as she struggled towards him across the airport concourse.
'What in hell is that?' he said scathingly as she dumped her burden at his feet, panting.
'It's a suitcase.'
A flight announcement boomed out, drowning her words. She swallowed, defensive under his cutting gaze. 'I know it's not exactly the thing for bashing about the bush, but I didn't have anything else, and it's been such a rush to get organised in time.'
'They certainly won't let you take it on board as hand baggage.'
She looked at him. He wore jeans and a light jacket, and carried only a camera bag and a small battered holdall. He was obviously an experienced traveller, entirely cool and at ease in the milling chaos of the busy terminal, whereas she felt hot and flustered and decidedly apprehensive.
'Is that a problem?'
'It means we'll have to hang around at the other end while they unload the plane.' His look told her what he thought about that.
'Well, I'm sorry!' she said, tetchy with nerves, 'but if I'd had a bit more information—like where exactly we're going, and how long for—I might have been able to travel a bit lighter. As it is, I've had to pack for every contingency I could think of, and a few more besides.'
He scowled at her tone. 'Well, I'm sorry about that, but, as you so rightly point out, there's been no time for anything. For one thing I've been dashing all over the place. I've hardly been in London since I last saw you. Anyway, here are your travel documents. And here's a brief itinerary that Elaine typed up for you. It should tell you all you need to know.'
Frankie took the papers wordlessly.
'I've already checked in,' he said abruptly, 'so if you'll excuse me, there's some phone calls I have to make. I expect I'll see you on the plane.'
With a sinking heart she watched his disappearing back, realising that he had no intention of helping her with the unfamiliar check-in procedures. In fact, he c
ould not seem to get away from her fast enough, and it was at least an hour later before she saw him again. As they waited to board the plane he came over to where she sat reading through the document he had given her.
'OK?'
'Oh, fine.' She veiled the sarcasm in her voice. The itinerary could not have been sparser or more impersonal. '04.08 a.m. arrive Nairobi,' it started, 'transfer to overnight accommodation', and continued in much the same vein for its ten brief paragraphs. It could have been the agenda for a meeting of sales reps, she thought, or the outline of a marketing conference.
'What's "associated gamepark activity"?'
'What?' He frowned.
'It says here, "Drive to Masai Mara to photograph game and associated gamepark activity for International Wildlife Fund".'
His eyes flicked shrewdly over hers. 'She shouldn't have bothered to put that in. It just means any old thing that comes up. I've got an open brief.' His voice was casual, but she saw that his eyes had darkened with wariness.
She folded the paper away. 'You mean the driver gets kept in the dark,' she said bluntly.
Their eyes met in open antagonism. He bent towards her. 'The driver,' he said, very coldly and very deliberately, 'is here to drive. Nothing more. Nothing less.' He held her eyes with a hard look, but she refused to be intimidated and kept her own open green gaze on his. 'Look, Frankie,' he burst out harshly, scything the air with his hand, 'let's get one thing clear right from the start. I normally travel alone and I like it that way. I don't like having to have your help, I don't welcome your company, and I have no intention whatsoever of turning this trip into a social jaunt. Do you understand?'
Her eyes sparked with anger and colour flushed to her cheeks, but she swallowed back her fury as best she could. 'I'm not here to socialise,' she said tersely. 'A little politeness would be quite enough.'
'Even that's probably asking too much,' he said coldly. 'Social niceties have never been my strong point, and, anyway, when I'm working it's work that I think about. Nothing else.' And he got up and pointedly sat down in a seat some way away from her.
She watched him, furious, and suddenly wished with all her heart that she had never set eyes on him. Then she deliberately raised her book high in front of her face and did not look in his direction again until the flight was called.
