by Liz Fielding
Still far too close to Jack Wolfe’s apartment for comfort, she walked swiftly down the street until she was out of sight of the converted warehouse that he called home. Only then did she allow herself the luxury of laughter.
Dangerous maybe, but she’d got away with it. She hardly expected him to recognise Melanie Brett Beaumont, he was probably unaware of her existence, but those sharp eyes hadn’t spotted the girl who had cannoned into him in the travel office, either.
Why should he? She looked down at the clothes she was wearing and laughed again. It didn’t matter who saw her. Richard was right, no one she knew would give her a second glance dressed like this.
Suddenly the possibilities seemed endless. Could she fool her sisters? Luke even? She remembered Richard’s warning about the dimple. Just as long as she didn’t smile.
And the reverse of dressing down had its temptations too. Would Jack Wolfe recognise his cleaner if she turned up on his doorstep in full frontal glamour? Would he even associate her with the distraught female he had held for a moment, close enough to kiss? She hadn’t smiled then, had she?
Pull yourself together girl, she told herself, sternly. You’re getting carried away a little here. But it might be fun to find out, to wipe that superior look right off his arrogant face when he discovered his mistake.
She was still giggling when saw a woman standing hopefully shaking a charity box and remembering the ten pound note, Melanie stopped.
‘What are you collecting for?’ she asked.
‘The local cat rescue people.’ She gave Melanie a doubtful look. ‘Every little helps,’ she encouraged.
‘I’m sure it does.’ And to the woman’s astonishment she reached into the deep pocket of Jack Wolfe’s jeans and retrieved the ten pound note he had given her, pushing it into the collecting box. Then she turned to hail a cab passing on the far side of street. For the first time ever a driver failed to notice her. And who, she reasoned, could blame him? With a slightly rueful smile she looked round for a bus stop.
When she finally arrived home, the telephone was ringing. She left it to the answering machine. What she needed right now was a shower.
But when the tape clicked in and she heard Mrs Graham’s voice, she stopped to listen. ‘This is Mrs Graham, at the Busy Bees Agency. Please call me back as soon as you -’
Melanie picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, Mrs Graham.’
‘Oh, you are there.’
‘I’ve just this minute walked through the door.’
‘I wondered how the job went this afternoon.’
A personal enquiry? Surely she was the one who should be chasing Janet Graham?
‘Fine. No problems.’
She pulled a face at herself in the hall mirror, but she didn’t think Janet Graham would want to hear about a few minor difficulties concerning curry sauce and the unexpected arrival of the flat’s owner.
The woman made a slow job of clearing her throat. ‘Mr Wolfe called me a short while ago.’
‘Did he?’ Tom? Phoning to say thanks for a job well done? How sweet. He was sweet. Unlike his brother.
‘Mr Jack Wolfe, that is.’
‘Oh!’ Well it was too late to confess what had happened, Mrs Graham obviously knew already. What had he said, she wondered? That she had been fooling around with his brother when he walked in? That she had a lot of lip for a woman who cleaned for a living? No. He couldn’t be that mean. Could he?
‘He was quite pleased with your work.’ Another major throat clearing job as if passing on the compliment might choke her.
‘Oh?’ Pleased? Oh no, not pleased, quite pleased. ‘Well, that’s good.’
‘Yes. While it is not my habit to take on young women who have no real experience of domestic work, particularly girls in your profession, in your case I’m prepared to make an exception.’
‘My profession?’
‘You are an actress?’
‘I have been,’ she confirmed. For a moment she wondered if Janet Graham realized who she was and had decided to take her on for the publicity that it would generate for her business if it got out. She might even be planning to put in a call to the diary page herself, anonymously.
‘So, I’d like you start work tomorrow. On a one-month probationary basis of course,’ she added. ‘Seven o’clock sharp, now. Don’t let me down.’
Melanie let out a little gasp. The woman was offering her a job! A proper nine-to-five job. Or rather seven until five, or six, or whatever, job. With no time off for good behaviour. Thanks, but no thanks. It had been an interesting experience but certainly not one which she was anxious to repeat.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Graham, I appreciate your confidence, but on reflection I really don’t think this is the kind of work that I’m looking for.’ The silence at the other end of the telephone had a stunned quality. As if no one had ever had the temerity to turn her down before.
‘Are you quite certain? I know the work is hard, but it is regular. It doesn’t do to be too choosey. I mean your profession is somewhat uncertain?’
‘It has its up and downs,’ Melanie agreed.
‘Perhaps you’d like to sleep on it.’ Stunned and just a little desperate, Melanie thought, no matter how hard she was trying to disguise it. ‘Why don’t you call in on Monday morning and pick up your wages? We can talk about it then.’
No way. But she’d forgotten about the money she’d earned. It wasn’t much, but she’d worked hard for it. And she’d have to do something about returning Jack Wolfe’s clothes too.
‘All right. I’ll do that.’
It wasn’t until Mel had replaced the receiver that it occurred to her to wonder why Jack Wolfe had bothered to telephone Busy Bees.
Tom had made the booking, Tom was paying the bill. Why had Jack Wolfe called the office? Surely not to say he was “quite” pleased with her work. She couldn’t imagine him ever being “quite” anything.
Could it be that he wanted to be certain that his precious clothes were returned, properly washed and pressed?
She glanced down at herself. His jeans and his t-shirt. Who did he think he was kidding? In some other life he might have worn them. But not now. She was almost certain that if she dumped them in the bin he wouldn’t even miss them. But not sufficiently certain to risk it. Just in case. She really didn’t want him turning up on her doorstep demanding their return.
No. That was silly, he didn’t know her address, neither did Janet Graham. Just a telephone number. And she intended to keep it that way.
So, the sooner they were washed and returned the better. Yet as she gripped the hem of the t-shirt and pulled it over her head, she caught an elusive woody outdoors scent. Oh, no, really. Yet as she held the soft material to her face she knew she was right.
Beneath the scent of lavender polish, mingling with her own L’Air du Temps, the fresh sharp resin of new-sawn pine was unmistakable. And without warning she had a vision of the man bent over a saw-horse, sweat beading his brow, immaculate hair ruffled by the wind, the veins and muscles standing proud on his arms as he powered the saw through the wood.
A quite different person to the chisel-jawed businessman in the Saville Row suit. A man she might conceivably want to know.
Maybe. Or maybe her imagination was being driven by nothing more exciting than a splash of pine disinfectant.
She snapped out of reverie and pushed the clothes into the machine, poured in the powder and switched it on. That would deal with his clothes and her fantasies. The sooner they were out of her flat the better. Then she wouldn’t have to give him another thought.
Pleased with herself she showered, scrambled a couple of eggs to eat with curls of smoked salmon and went to bed early with a book of such complexity that it dealt with any lingering urge to wonder about Jack Wolfe. And what he was doing when he wasn’t giving cleaning ladies a hard time.
Yet as she drifted on the edge of sleep, Jack Wolfe bobbed up from the depths of her subconscious, his eyes narrowed as if trying to rem
ember where he had met her before. She sat up with a jolt, her heart pounding horribly fast as if she had just stepped over the edge of some terrifying drop and she was shaken by a long, deep shuddering sigh.
She fell back against the pillows, breathing deeply until her heart had returned to some semblance of normality.
Wretched, wretched man.
It was as if, when he looked at her with those penetrating grey eyes, he had somehow managed to lodge part of himself inside her brain so that the minute she stopped concentrating on something else her thoughts would keep drifting back to him.
Why? She’d never been hooked on danger. Never been the kind of girl to run after the bad boys, the ones that made your heart beat faster just to think about them. Her heart had beat all right, but she’d had too much sense to be lose her head, and her mother to point out just how badly they treated the girls who did run after them.
Or maybe it was having an unmarried mother as an enduring example of what happened to girls who took risks that had made her cautious.
Too cautious?
Richard certainly thought so. Or was it even simpler than that? Could it be that there had never been anyone dangerous enough to make taking a risk worth while?
Well Jack Wolfe was dangerous, at least for a girl who had no scar tissue over her heart to protect her. He had a careless arrogance, an imperious disregard for what others might think of him that exerted a powerful draw. Even for a girl with enough sense to know better. Which could be why her heart was pounding like a steam hammer at the very thought of him.
She sat up, switched on the light and pushed her hair back from her face. ‘Jack Wolfe,’ she said, out loud, ‘is dangerous. Any girl who got involved with him would be crazy. He’s rude. He’s arrogant and it is my dearest wish never to set eyes upon him again. And I am not going to waste another second thinking about him.’
And having given herself a thorough talking to, Melanie beat her pillow into shape and lay back. Not one? Her subconscious offered the little pinprick as her head touched the linen.
What about when she returned his clothes, dressed to kill in Emporio Armani? And as she thought about it, she finally admitted to herself the reason for her obsession. She had simply never been spoken to like that by a man.
In fact she hadn’t been spoken to like that since she became a pre-pubescent soap star at the age of ten. Obviously her self-esteem couldn’t take it.
Well, Richard had warned her about that, too. A pretty face won a lot more friends than a sweet nature.
In recompense, she indulged her idiotic pride by imagining the effect that each of her dresses would have on Jack Wolfe when Cinderella turned out to be rather more than a fairy tale.
There was a certain pleasure in allowing her mind to construct a series of fantasies in which first uncertainty, and then downright disbelief, would shake Mr Jack Wolfe out of that blade-edged assurance. It might be fun to confront him with his mistake in a way that he couldn’t ignore.
It was just a silly game, she knew that. But as she finally drifted off to sleep her final thought was that it was probably a very good thing that she didn’t possess a pair of glass slippers. Because whatever else he might be, Jack Wolfe certainly wasn’t Prince Charming.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I DIDN’T think you had the nerve,’ Richard said, when she arrived at the wine bar the following evening and told him about her experiment in the world of work.
But he had been right about her appearance, despite a different wig, wild and henna’d red, her skin dramatically pale, her eyes heavily made up with kohl, he’d stood up and waved the moment she entered the wine bar.
Not that he approved. Her clothes were black, aggressive and her boots laced to the knee. She’d been given a wide berth on the underground and turned a few nervous heads as she strode across the square. It was oddly exhilarating. As was Richard’s discomfort.
Could it be he’d wanted to go to this actor’s workshop tonight with Melanie Beaumont wearing a designer dress and clinging to his arm like some trophy? He always had been vain, wanted to be the centre of attention.
‘It was amazingly easy,’ she said, just a little amused at his obvious irritation. ‘I just walked into Busy Bees and I was handed a job there and then.’
‘A permanent job?’
‘Not straight away. Frankly, I think Mrs Graham only offered me the post-party clean-up because she was desperate. But the client phoned afterwards and said he was “quite” pleased apparently. So she offered me a job on the strength of that.’
‘The guy must have been a whole lot more than quite pleased. Ma Graham never takes on resting actresses. They’re too much trouble.’
‘Oh I didn’t tell her I’m an actress. I’m not that stupid. Actually, I think Jack Wolfe must have put the idea into her head.’
‘Jack Wolfe?’ He stared at her. ‘Jack Wolfe? As in John Garrett Wolfe? He was the client? Where was this apartment?’
She told him. ‘Do you know him?’
‘I clean his offices every night after he’s gone home.’
She turned and looked across the square. ‘You mean he has an office in the same block as Trudy Morgan?’
‘In a manner of speaking. He owns the building. That’s him at the top.’ He pointed to where a light was still shining. ‘Working late on his latest scheme to make money. Are you taking it? The job?’ he asked, as she continued to stare upwards.
‘What?’ She turned back to him. ‘Oh, no. No.’
‘No. It wouldn’t do. I mean, it’s not that difficult. Just hard.’ He gave an expressive little shrug, suggesting it would be altogether too much for her.
‘Not that hard. And I’m not that soft. I made a good job of Jack Wolfe’s apartment let me tell you. He actually phoned Mrs Graham and told her so. Unlike you, she thinks I’m up to the job. She asked me to reconsider when I turned her down.’ He looked sceptical. ‘You don’t believe me? I’ll have you know that she asked me to sleep on it, go and see her on Monday to talk it over.’
‘Don’t waste your beauty sleep, sweetheart.’
‘I won’t.’ He pulled a face, smiled a little. ‘What?’
‘Nothing, Mel. You’re being very sensible. As always.’
Sensible. Sweet. Dizzy. It was as much as Melanie could do to stop herself from screaming. ‘You don’t think I could do it, do you?’
‘Of course, my darling. If you wanted to.’ He was patronising her. Verbally patting her on the head. ‘For a day or two, anyway.’
‘For as long as I chose.’
‘All right, Mel,’ he murmured, reassuringly. ‘But why would you want to? You’re above all that sort of thing.’
‘You mean I’m afraid to get my hands dirty?’
‘I didn’t say afraid. But you’re a Beaumont. If anyone found out what you were doing - well, your father wouldn’t be very pleased, would he? And as for Luke Devlin. He was worse than ten fathers.’
‘This isn’t anything to do with them, Richard. I’m twenty-one next month.’ Melanie was suddenly overcome with an urge to wipe that superior smile right off Richard’s face and she leaned forward. ‘I could do anything Janet Graham asked me. And I’m willing to put my money where my mouth is. How much do you want to bet?’
‘Don’t be silly, Mel -’
‘Humour me, Richard. How much?’
‘Fifty pounds,’ he offered, dismissively.
‘You’re not taking this seriously.’
‘Do you expect me to?’
‘If I can’t do it, what have you got to lose?’ she enquired, in a parody of her much vaunted sweetness.
‘A hundred pounds, then,’ he said, reluctantly.
She gave him a look that suggested he was the closest thing Scrooge had to kin. ‘Five hundred pounds, Richard. For my sister’s charity.’
‘That’s a lot of money.’
‘According to you it should be yours within days.’
He gave her a thoughtful look. ‘All right. How
long will you work for?’
‘A month? Is that long enough to prove I can stick it?’
‘A month should certainly be long enough. If you’re serious?’ By way of answer she held out her hand and after a moment he took it. ‘Very well. Five hundred. But you have to work a full calendar month.’
‘From Monday. There’s just one problem. She’ll want my address. If I tell her where I live, she’ll smell at rat. Can I could use yours?’
‘Sure, help yourself.’ He grinned. ‘Move in if you like. I’ve got a double bed.’
‘Thanks, Richard, but I think we’ve already covered that. You had your chance to make me an offer and you blew it.’
‘You weren’t serious,’ he pointed out.
‘Wasn’t I? Well, now you’ll never know. Besides, I like it where I am.’
‘Tell me about Jack Wolfe’s apartment.’
‘Austere. Uncluttered. Beautiful,’ she said, without thinking.
‘Oooh…’ he said, camping it up.
‘What?’
‘You’ve been thinking about it. You’ve been thinking about him. He won’t look at you twice dressed like that, you know. He likes his women like his apartment. Like his office come to that. Pared to the bone, uncluttered to point of austerity.’
‘Clearly the man has style.’ And he’d want a partner to match.
‘Personally I prefer a bit more comfort,’ Richard said.
‘Maybe you just don’t have any taste.’
‘Definitely smitten.’
‘With Jack Wolfe?’ She laughed. ‘Get real. I cleaned his apartment once, that’s all. You said it. Why would he look at me twice?’
Actually he had looked. He just hadn’t liked what he’d seen. Well, she wasn’t blind. She’d seen her reflection in the mirror and on the whole she sympathised with him.
Richard wasn’t convinced. ‘Have a care, Mel. I promise you he’s a strictly and bed-and-breakfast lover. There’s a whole string of lovely women who thought they could change his mind and have found themselves crying into their pillow.’
‘More fool them.’
‘More fool you if you fall into the same trap.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m wasting my breath of course. He’s only got to lift a little finger and women drop into his bed. I can’t see the attraction myself. He’s got a calculator for a brain and ice where his heart should be.’ He leaned forward, touched her cheek in a possessive little gesture. ‘When I suggested an affair with someone unsuitable -’
