At the Boss's Command

by Darcy Maguire

  But where would she walk to? She was on the top floor of his building, all alone except for a bunch of his security guards, and no way back to the airport except in his limo, driven by his chauffeur.

  He was already pumping up the cuff. She felt it bite into her arm. Listening carefully to the stethoscope pressed to her arm, he did not look like any doctor she had ever known.

  ‘Do you speak Chinese?’

  It was her weakest point and she tried not to wince. ‘No, Mr Zell. I speak French and German and I can get by in Spanish and Italian.’

  ‘Your blood pressure is a little high,’ he commented, pulling off the Velcro cuff.

  ‘I’ve been squashed up behind a family with young children on an airliner for twenty hours,’ she retorted. ‘And not much has happened since I got off to bring it down again!’

  His fingers were biting into the sensitive inside of her wrist. ‘And your pulse is rather fast, too.’

  ‘Hardly surprising, either.’

  ‘Any history of heart problems?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Do you suffer from high blood pressure? Hypertension?’

  ‘No! Everything is usually normal. I’m suffering from the effects of a long flight, Mr Zell, nothing more.’

  He noted the readings in a dossier. ‘How did your parents die?’

  Amy was looking out of the corners of her eyes to try and see how thick the dossier was, and what might be in it. ‘My father died first,’ she said. ‘He had cancer. And no, before you ask, it wasn’t a hereditary type. My mother nursed him to the end. But I think the experience shattered her. She was very frail. She died of pneumonia two years later.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘I was eight when my mother died.’

  He looked at her intently, but without any appearance of compassion. ‘And this is when Uncle Jeffrey stepped in?’

  ‘He was my mother’s younger brother. He took me into his house. I grew up with his kids, my cousins.’

  ‘And he put you through school?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then through college?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Very altruistic of him.’

  The suspicion of irony in his tone made her angry. ‘Yes, it was, as a matter of fact. He wasn’t very pleased to have an extra mouth to feed, but he did what he thought was his duty!’

  He was washing his hands in the sink. Now he opened a sterile packet which contained some kind of kit. He pulled on latex gloves and began preparing a squat syringe. ‘How did you repay your uncle’s kindness?’ he asked, watching what he was doing with narrowed eyes.

  ‘I won scholarships all through school. And then all through college, too. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m going to take a blood sample,’ he replied calmly. He probed the tender inside of her elbow with his fingertips and found the vein. ‘Have any disabilities?’ he asked, swabbing her skin with icy alcohol.

  ‘No. Ouch!’

  The needle slipped adroitly into her vein. The body of the syringe filled steadily with blood. She bit her lip. He was very close to her. She could feel the warmth of his skin, could smell a trace of some expensive cologne.

  A sudden wave of perilous dizziness washed over her. She swayed, afraid she would fall.

  ‘Am I hurting you?’ he asked, steadying her with a strong hand.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You look pale. Does the sight of blood disturb you?’

  ‘No. What is this blood sample for?’

  ‘Well, it’s the full moon, and I need a snack,’ he replied. He slipped the needle out of her vein and pressed a pad of cotton wool to the spot. ‘Hold that there for a moment, please. It’ll be used for drug screening, Worthington. Do you use recreational drugs of any kind? Anything I should know about?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Cigarettes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Alcohol?’

  ‘A glass of wine now and then.’

  ‘What sort of wine do you like?’

  ‘Dry white, mostly.’

  ‘Champagne?’

  ‘Yes, very much.’

  ‘I need you to sign this sample,’ he said, giving her a pen. She wrote her name on the package and he put it in the fridge. ‘The lab people will pick it up in an hour. Now I need a urine sample.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to get one,’ she said firmly.

  ‘You don’t have to do it here, you can go next door.’

  ‘And you can go a lot further!’

  He frowned. ‘You’re refusing to give a sample?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Zell,’ she said sweetly. ‘I’m refusing to give a sample. You can take that as bad faith, good faith, or any kind of faith you choose. You’ve got my blood and that’s as far as it goes.’

  He sighed. ‘Are you diabetic? Do you suffer from hepatitis?’

  ‘No to both questions.’

  ‘Then I suppose we can skip the urine sample.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re very squeamish,’ he said, writing in the dossier. ‘If you’re lucky—or unlucky—enough to land this job, you’ll look back on this moment with a bitter laugh.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll remember that.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, shutting the folder, ‘we can continue the rest of this in my office. Let me put a plaster on that arm.’

  He planted a small sticking plaster on the little red dot on her arm where his needle had gone in and led her down the corridor.

  His headquarters were a corner office with magnificent views. Placed around the office were several scale models of recent Zell projects—complex masses of piping and tanks that made up the specialised oil refineries that he had pioneered and made his fortune out of. She recognised several of them—they were dotted all over the world, many here in south-east Asia.

  Directing Amy to a chair, he opened an icebox and took out a champagne bottle and two frosted glasses. ‘Is this what, in your experience, multimillionaires have for breakfast?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose it’s more traditional,’ she said cautiously. ‘Are we celebrating already?’

  ‘No. But you look as though you could do with a drink. And you did say you loved champagne.’ He poured the foaming Roederer into her glass. ‘I thought you were going to pass out back there.’

  ‘I did feel a momentary qualm,’ she said. ‘It was a long flight. A glass of Cristal might help, at that.’

  ‘I need to ask you a few more questions,’ he said, clinking his glass against hers.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you ever been arrested?’

  She almost choked on her champagne. ‘No.’

  ‘Ever been convicted of any crimes or felonies?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can you tell me what the Laminate Plate System is?’

  This time she did not stumble. ‘LPS is a steel-elastomer-steel composite that Zell Corporation developed for building storage tanks. It’s stronger and lighter than conventional steel. It’s also much tougher, and that has obvious implications for marine construction. You’ve just leased the patent to a Korean shipbuilding company. If the system works out it may eventually earn you even more than you’re currently making in the petrochemical industry.’

  He was standing by the window, watching her over his glass of champagne. The morning light revealed the perfection of his figure—long, muscular legs, taut waist and powerful shoulders, supporting a neck and head that would have graced a Greek god. He seemed to smile slightly.

  ‘You say the words “petrochemical industry” as though you really are fascinated by it.’

  ‘I am,’ she said. She indicated the scale models of refineries that stood around the office. ‘I’m fascinated by complex engineering projects like these, Mr Zell. I like everything about your work. I especially like the environmental dimension you’ve started adding to everything you do. I like the care you take not to contaminate the ecologies where your refineries are loca
ted. I like the fact that you’ve used your brilliance to develop systems to refine used oil. Even your Laminate Plate System could have a beneficial impact on the environment. If it’s used for the hulls of supertankers, oil spills from holes in the hull could become a thing of the past.’

  ‘Commendably ecological sentiments,’ he commented. He did not appear to have been flattered by her words; indeed, she had not been attempting to flatter him, only to express her genuine feelings.

  ‘Yes, ecology matters to me,’ she said. ‘I want to hand something down to my children.’

  ‘How many children do you have?’ he asked blandly.

  ‘None! It was a figure of speech.’

  ‘Have you ever been married?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Do you have a current boyfriend?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s relevant!’

  ‘It’s very relevant. I warned you, Worthington, your work schedule is not going to allow much in the way of a love-life over the next months. If you’re in the throes of a great romance, planning a family some time soon, anything like that, then this is not the job for you.’

  ‘I have nobody,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘I’m not planning a family and there is no great romance in my life. I am happy to put the Zell Corporation first and foremost. Mr Zell, I may look young and flighty to you, but I can promise you that you won’t find anyone more prepared to throw herself into this job than I am. I’m prepared to eat, drink and breathe Zell Corporation business from now on.’

  He considered her from under brooding lids. ‘You’re starting to frighten me,’ he said drily.

  ‘I frighten myself sometimes,’ she agreed. ‘Would you like to hear about the greater vibration damping and improved thermal insulation offered by your new copolymer pipe linings? Or about how your unique solvent extraction system eliminates the need for thin-film evaporators as well as the costly hydrotreating step that makes your competitors’ systems so expensive?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Then perhaps I can tell you about the remarkable success Zell Corporation has had in the Marseilles plant, removing water, additives and contaminants at ambient conditions, so that the resulting oil can be handled with traditional distillation equipment?’

  ‘All right, you’ve shown that you’ve done your homework and have a retentive memory.’

  ‘I have an IQ in triple figures, too,’ she said helpfully.

  ‘I don’t mean to patronise you,’ he replied. ‘Since Marcie’s illness, I have been in desperate need of a new assistant. Look at this.’ He tossed something into her lap. She picked it up. It was his slim titanium phone.

  ‘Your cell-phone?’

  ‘Satellite phone, Worthington. It works anywhere. I switched it to silent at the airport. Take a look at the screen.’

  She obeyed and saw the blinking announcement: 37 missed calls, 44 new messages.

  ‘I see your problem,’ she said.

  ‘Good. Do you want to start dealing with those?’

  ‘Me? Now?’

  ‘We don’t have a lot of time. We’re flying to Borneo at two.’

  ‘“We”?’

  ‘You and I. Us. We have a plant to inspect.’

  ‘Does this mean I’m hired?’ she said breathlessly.

  ‘Unless your blood test shows you’re a dope fiend or pregnant.’

  ‘But I—I wouldn’t know where to start!’

  ‘For now, all I need you to do is answer that phone. Work out who is urgent and tell all the others I’m not available.’ He indicated the huge teak desk in the corner of the office. ‘That used to be Marcie’s. When we get back to Hong Kong you’ll start working out her systems. She won’t be coming back to the office, but the secretaries will help you.’

  ‘Mr Zell, I didn’t expect to be starting work right now! I was planning to fly back to London tomorrow. If I’m really hired, I have things to arrange.’

  ‘You’ve messed with my schedule. I think that gives me the right to mess with yours. I need you in Borneo this afternoon. When we get back, I’ll make sure you have time to return to London and organise your life.’

  ‘But I only packed clothing for three days!’

  ‘What you’re mainly going to need in Borneo,’ he said succinctly, ‘is a raincoat. It’s the monsoon season.’

  Chapter Three

  HUDDLED under the raincoat she had bought at Hong Kong Airport, Amy was still answering calls as they toured the Bandak refinery. It was late afternoon, but the wild weather made it almost as dark as night.

  It was a panorama of rain in all its most turbulent manifestations—slashing down in curtains and beating on the buildings, driven up, down and sideways by the wind, pouring from the refinery’s vast but as yet half-finished system of pipes in waterfalls, ploughing muddy torrents in the red dirt. Beyond the construction site, the jungle trees flailed wildly. Palm fronds and branches had broken off, and littered the earth.

  The flight from Hong Kong, though made in Anton’s private jet, had been rough, with lightning and high winds to contend with. The landing, at an airstrip near the construction site, had been hair-raising. On the ground, the rain, driven by gusts that were alternately warm and cool, was like nothing she had seen before. For the first time, she understood what the word monsoon meant. That sense of unreality washed over her again. She had not dreamed, as she flew into Hong Kong that morning, that by nightfall she would be in Borneo, Anton Zell’s newest and rawest employee!

  ‘We’re ahead of schedule, despite the monsoon,’ the site manager was telling Anton. She was listening to the conversation with one ear whilst taking a call with the other. They were standing with the engineers in the shelter of a cabin. The rain was pounding on the roof, a ferocious assault on all the senses. ‘The first phase will come into production two months early.’

  ‘Have the seals been tested?’

  ‘They all hold up. The new system looks good.’

  ‘What level of production are we looking at for phase one?’

  ‘We’ve got the preliminary calculations here,’ the man said, holding out a folder. ‘We should be refining two thousand tons a month by next May.’

  ‘Give those to my PA,’ Anton commanded.

  Amy accepted the folder from the site manager with a smile, never interrupting her conversation. She was already carrying a great wedge of information. And the woman to whom she was talking on the satellite phone was determined to speak to Anton, even though he had given her strict instructions that he was incommunicado.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she murmured, ‘but Mr Zell is in a meeting and I cannot disturb him.’

  ‘I can hear his voice, damn it,’ the sharp, aristocratic voice snapped. She had identified herself as Lady Carron, and Amy was getting a vision of someone at the other end twirling an ebony cigarette-holder a foot long. ‘Where is he? Propping up some bar, surrounded by floozies?’

  ‘He’s touring a refinery,’ she replied evenly, ‘and he’s surrounded by engineers.’

  ‘Who the hell are you, anyway? You’re not Marcie.’

  ‘That’s correct. My name is Amy Worthington and I’m Marcie’s replacement.’

  ‘Well, what the hell has happened to Marcie?’

  ‘Mr Zell worked her to death, Lady Carron. Can I take a message?’

  ‘Yes, you damn well can. Tell Anton I will be waiting for his call.’ The line clicked, but Amy was already taking the next call.

  Anton came up to her and took her arm. ‘We’re just about done here. The pilot says the weather is getting worse. I don’t think it would be wise to try flying back to Hong Kong tonight.’

  ‘I would rather be torn to pieces by piranhas.’

  ‘Piranhas are South American, Worthington. We’ll spend the night in a hotel in Kuching.’

  ‘A Lady Carron keeps calling. She’s expecting you to call back.’

  ‘One of the more troublesome shareholders. We had our annual general meeting a couple of weeks back and she
raised merry hell. She can wait. Let’s get back to the Jeep.’

  The road into Kuching was not so much a road as a shallow river. The Jeep made heavy progress, lurching in the thick mud. She relayed the other messages she had taken on his behalf. He seemed to listen with half his attention. Amy could see that his mind was still focused on the refinery with laser-like intensity, making calculations, projections, estimates.

  They reached Kuching, a sprawling, picturesque town on the Sarawak River. Despite the monsoon, life was going on, and the streets were crowded. Everybody simply accepted the downpour.

  The Jeep made its way through the evening traffic to the hotel, which was on the riverfront. It was a charming old place, full of old-world colonial glamour.

  The room she was given had a balcony overlooking the river. She undressed, finding all her clothes, despite the raincoat, soaked through. She had a change of clothes in her bag—the outfit she had planned to wear for the interview. It was going to have to do.

  The shower was modern and the water hot. She let it soak away the tiredness of the day. There had never been one like it in her life before. She had fixed on Anton Zell, the business genius, as a means to escape from England. But Anton Zell, the man, had entered her life like the monsoon itself, lifting her off her feet and blowing her thousands of miles off course. She wondered when—if ever—her feet were going to touch ground again.

  She smoothed a cooling skin lotion all over herself, trying to convince herself that none of this was a wild dream. With a towel wrapped round her hair and another plastered round her torso, she emerged from the bathroom.

  She stopped dead when she saw that Anton Zell was sitting on her bed, reading through the folders that the Bandak site manager had given them.

  ‘Mr Zell!’

  ‘Anton,’ he said, not looking up. ‘Nobody calls me Mr Zell. Is your first name really Amelia?’

  ‘Amy.’ She was acutely aware of how much of her nakedness was showing below and above the towel. ‘And I’m not dressed yet.’

  He glanced up and considered her with smouldering blue eyes. ‘I’ve managed to shower and change and read twenty pages while you’ve been in there.’

  ‘You’re a man,’ she said pointedly.