At the Boss's Command

by Darcy Maguire

‘A hungry man.’ He was studying her legs unashamedly. ‘I’ve booked a table at the restaurant.’

  ‘I need to dress!’

  He rose. Deliberately or otherwise, he brushed past her on his way out. ‘You smell like a rainforest orchid. Perfumed and humid. Don’t take all night, Amelia Worthington. I’ll wait for you in the lobby.’

  The dining-room was enchanting, a vast, high-vaulted room whose moulded ceiling was supported by ornate columns. It looked as though it had barely changed since the last century, with lovely old teak furniture and an eclectic collection of sofas and rattan chairs scattered around. The doors were open onto the garden to let in the breeze, though bamboo blinds had been lowered to keep out the worst of the monsoon rain. The tables were lit by candles. By their glowing light, the Iban masks and sculptures which hung on the walls seemed to take on a flickering life.

  ‘None of those things are real shrunken heads, are they?’ she asked Anton as they perused the menu.

  He snorted. ‘Go to the bottom of the class, Worthington. Shrunken heads are South American, like piranhas. The Iban take heads but they don’t shrink them. Shrinking heads involves taking out the brain and—’

  She interrupted hastily. ‘All I want to know is, are they human?’

  ‘I don’t know. Some of them look familiar. That one is very like a personal assistant of mine who vanished a couple of years ago.’

  ‘You enjoy tormenting me, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said frankly. ‘There has been no head-hunting in Borneo for over half a century. That pretty cranium of yours is perfectly safe. I can recommend the curried fish. The mackerel is fresh and it’s quite delicious.’

  ‘All right,’ she conceded. She was really too baffled by the strange words in the menu to make up her own mind. ‘I love this hotel.’

  ‘Good. I’ve stayed at the Hilton and the other smart hotels up-town, but this place is my favourite.’

  ‘I hope I’m not letting you down. These clothes were meant for the interview, not going out.’

  ‘Business, not pleasure?’ He looked at her with smoky eyes. She was wearing the grey suit she had chosen for the interview, elegant, professional and formal. The feminine touch was supplied by the pearls that glowed against her pale skin. ‘Who bought you those exquisite pearls?’

  ‘They were my mother’s,’ she said, pleased that he had noticed. ‘Aren’t they pretty?’

  ‘They’re perfect for your wonderful complexion. Pearls and an English rose.’

  She smiled. If he enjoyed teasing her, she enjoyed being teased. It was a long time since she had felt this light-hearted. The rain was still pouring outside. Above them a fan rotated slowly, keeping the air cool. A waiter clad in snowy white except for his mustard-coloured turban took their order and then brought them the drinks they’d ordered.

  ‘So,’ Anton said, watching her with amusement in his eyes, ‘whose idea was it to call you Amelia?’

  ‘What’s wrong with the name?’

  ‘It’s painfully Victorian. Amelia Worthington sounds like a virtuous orphan in Charles Dickens.’

  ‘Well, I am an orphan,’ she said lightly, ‘though I don’t know about virtuous.’

  His expression changed. ‘I forgot. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  ‘No offence was taken. It happens to be an old family name. It was my great-grandmother’s.’

  ‘Oh, indeed.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She sipped her cocktail. He was such a handsome man that just watching him filled her stomach with warm butterflies. It might be a lot harder than she had anticipated to be in close proximity with the best-looking man in the world, according to Vogue. ‘In any case, you are an orphan too, aren’t you?’

  ‘Aha. Still showing me how well you did your homework?’

  ‘I’m just repeating what’s written about you.’

  His eyes were watching her mouth. ‘Did you really tell Lavinia that I worked Marcie to death?’

  ‘Lavinia?’

  ‘Lavinia Hyde-White. Lady Carron.’

  ‘Oh, the person who keeps calling? The one you described me to this morning as “a small but unavoidable calamity”?’

  His devastating mouth quirked. ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Zell. And if you find Victorian names ridiculous, how about Lavinia Hyde-White?’

  ‘Well, like yours, it’s apparently an ancient family name.’

  ‘Do you call her “Lavvy” for short?’ she asked sweetly. ‘Or perhaps just “Lav”?’

  ‘It’s always Lavinia.’

  ‘I’m surprised you can keep a straight face at board meetings.’

  ‘I invariably keep a straight face with rich and beautiful women.’

  ‘Is that why you’re laughing at me?’ she retorted. ‘Because I’m a poor, plain orphan?’

  ‘You’re not plain, Worthington,’ he said, the expression in his eyes making her heart turn over. ‘You have the face of…’ He paused.

  ‘Please don’t say an angel. That would be so unoriginal.’

  ‘Well, coming out of that bathroom in a skimpy towel, you looked like a very young angel who had been playing with an imp, and who’d had to have the brimstone scrubbed off her by the archangels.’

  The cocktail had gone to her head and she couldn’t help laughing. ‘I know where the brimstone came from.’

  ‘You have a lovely laugh,’ he said. ‘Original or drama school?’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical,’ she retorted.

  Their food arrived. As he’d promised, the curried fish was delicious, flavoured with coconut and ginger and other spices she’d never tasted before.

  ‘I’m not an orphan in the sense that you are,’ he said without preamble. ‘I never knew my parents, so I did not have the experience of losing them, as you did. What you went through was much more traumatic.’

  ‘It can’t have been easy growing up in a series of foster homes,’ she said.

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Most were good. A few were very bad. I grew up in a lot of different environments and that made me the person I am. But going to live in someone else’s house when you are young, with someone else’s children, teaches you many things about life.’

  ‘Yes, it does,’ she said soberly.

  ‘I guess that is something we have in common. Maybe your head won’t end up on a spike after all. How’s your fish?’

  ‘It’s wonderful, thank you. I’m glad I took your recommendation.’

  ‘You’ll need to be a good traveller in this job,’ he said. ‘Go any place, sleep anywhere, eat anything.’

  ‘Anton,’ she said, using his Christian name for the first time, ‘I need to know something. Are you really giving me this job? Or did you just grab me because I was available, and can I expect to be dropped just as quickly when you’re in a more serious mood?’

  ‘Let’s say that, like any job, there’s a probationary period. If you measure up, you stay. If not, then you might be glad to leave anyway.’

  ‘So I could be fired tomorrow? Well, at least there is a way out of your employment other than serious illness.’

  ‘There’s also death. Being fired is definitely worse than either of the other two.’

  She toyed with her food, her small appetite already satiated by the spicy dish. ‘And how will I know whether I’m measuring up?’

  ‘You’re asking me for a job description? Now, in the middle of Borneo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He considered her carefully. ‘Let me ask you, first. What do you think the principal part of your job is?’

  She smiled. ‘So far, it’s been talking into that little titanium phone. You could replace me with an answering machine.’

  ‘Let me explain some things about my working life. I don’t spend much time in the office. Not any more. There was a phase of my life when I spent every waking hour at a computer or in a lab, designing systems to do the things I dreamed of. Now, I pay teams of people much cleverer than I am to do my research for
me. I just come up with ideas. New ideas. As you know, this company is on the edge of a major new development based on technology I’ve been able to develop. But I am compelled to travel between my various projects. If they’re being built, like the one we saw today, I make sure they’re being built properly. If they’re already running, like the one in Singapore that we’re going to in five days’ time, I make sure they’re running properly. That’s why I just warned you that you need to be a good traveller. You’re never going to be home.’

  ‘Nor are you,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Nor am I,’ he agreed. ‘I’m not married. I’ve always known that I could never inflict this kind of life on a wife. Not until I’m ready to settle down.’

  ‘And when will that be?’ she asked daringly.

  ‘When I meet the right woman,’ he said flatly. ‘Until then, I’m married to my work. I have no space or time for women—the sort of women who want a commitment from a man. But no man is an island. Which is why I need a PA. And that brings me to the answer to the question I asked you a moment ago. The chief quality I look for in my personal assistants is companionship. Compatibility. Being able to amuse me and get along with me for long stretches of proximity. It’s a very special kind of relationship. I hope you understand what I’m talking about.’

  She drew back as though she had been burned and stared at him, feeling the food in her stomach start to curdle. ‘Let me guess that Marcie was not grey-haired and seventy-ish?’

  His languorous eyes widened at the change in her tone. ‘What’s the matter? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost—with a shrunken head.’

  ‘Perhaps the curry disagreed with me,’ she said shortly.

  ‘I hope not. No, Marcie is not grey-haired and seventy-ish. She’s in her thirties, tall and very elegant. In fact, she used to be a fashion model.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Unusual for a woman in her thirties to have heart problems.’

  He was watching her pale face curiously. ‘Yes,’ he said curtly, ‘very sad. It was a great shock.’

  ‘Perhaps there were other complications,’ she said, folding her napkin.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Amy pushed back her chair. ‘I’m really tired, Mr Zell. It’s been a long day.’

  He looked irritated, but did not argue. ‘If you insist. I suppose we should hit the hay. Let’s go upstairs.’ He rose from the table with her. They walked out of the dining-room. The Iban masks on the walls seemed to be leering at her mockingly as she left.

  On the landing outside her room, exhaustion washed over her. The blood seemed to drain from her heart and she staggered. Anton caught her arm to support her.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ she said with an effort. ‘I just need sleep.’

  He reached out and hooked one finger around the string of pearls that hung at her throat. His eyes were locked on hers. He drew her face to his. At the last moment, she closed her eyes involuntarily.

  She felt his warm lips touch hers, a contact so sweet, so intimate, so achingly familiar.

  So dangerous.

  She looked up into his eyes. They were dark and intent. He took the key from her nerveless fingers and opened her door.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said. ‘Mind the head-hunters don’t bite.’

  She shut the door and locked it as though the devil himself were on the other side. Amy was awakened very early the next morning by thunder.

  She opened her eyes slowly, remembering where she was. Up in the vaulted ceiling, a fan chopped at the air languidly. She took in the elegant room lit by a rainy dawn. Yesterday was like a dream to her. It was hard to believe it had all happened. Yet there was a heavy stone in her chest that told her that her heart remembered, even if her mind didn’t.

  Her lips felt swollen, as though that momentary kiss had seared her mouth, leaving the tender skin burned.

  Fragments of yesterday echoed in her mind. Ever heard the expression ‘Sleeping your way to the top’? That was what he had asked her at the harbour in Hong Kong. It’s a very special kind of relationship. I hope you understand what I’m talking about.

  Oh, yes.

  She knew exactly what he was talking about. He had made it very clear. A wealthy man with no wife, married to his work, always on the move. No space or time for women—the sort of women who want a commitment from a man. But no man was an island, he had said. That was plain enough.

  Thunder muttered overhead. Amy rose and went out onto the balcony, wrapping the sarong around herself that the hotel had provided.

  Young Martin McCallum has something of a reputation with female colleagues. When Anton had said that yesterday, her heart had nearly stopped; why hadn’t she seen that as the glaring clue it was? Had he heard? Did he know what had happened to her at McCallum and Roe? Was that why he’d thrown the job at her so casually—because he needed someone in Borneo, and knew that she had a reputation, too?

  The grey-green river swept in a curve past the hotel. Already, though it was just after dawn, the river traffic was building up, sampans and barges drifting through the sheets of rain. She stared at the boats unseeingly. She had wanted so desperately to be out of England; well, here she was, about as far from London as you could get in every way.

  Lightning glared, and thunder crashed overhead. Had she really been so dim-witted as to leap from the frying-pan into the fire? How could she be so stupid? What had been the point of travelling thousands of miles, just to meet another Martin McCallum? Hadn’t she learned her lesson? Hadn’t she been through enough pain yet?

  In London she had felt that everyone was staring at her, that everyone knew. Knew how foolish she had been. Knew that she had been naïve enough to allow herself to be seduced by the most notorious womaniser in the City. Knew that she had allowed herself to be blinded by his promises and dazzled by his charm.

  That she hadn’t even noticed when they’d all been laughing at her, as she walked around with starry eyes.

  That she hadn’t taken, hadn’t even understood, the warnings.

  That she’d been so impossibly stupid that, when she’d learned she was pregnant, she’d expected Martin McCallum to be as delighted as she was.

  Her eyes blurred with tears as she remembered that terrible day, Martin’s mockery turning to fury as he heard her stammering declaration that she wanted to have the baby, wanted the child that had been conceived, so she still thought, out of their love. Martin shouting at her, asking her just how stupid she was. Martin telling her there had been no love, only sex. Martin screaming at her to do something fast.

  Do something, you little fool. I’ll pay.

  Do what, Martin?

  What do you think, for heaven’s sake? Open your eyes! Get rid of it. Or I warn you, you’re on your own. I’ll get my father to sack you and you can see how you like being an unemployed single mother!

  Amy huddled into her sarong. She had certainly opened her eyes that day. Her illusions had evaporated like wraiths.

  And with them had also gone her heart and her soul. Her happiness, her self-respect, her sense of wholeness, her feeling that life was good and that she was good and that her happy future was unfolding.

  And that, of course, was why she had found herself here in Borneo, standing alone on a balcony, looking at the dark green jungle. Like a creature on the very edge of civilisation, not sure whether it belonged to the light or to the darkness.

  It had taken her so long to recover from the psychological effects and start to believe in herself again. She’d fixed so much hope on Anton Zell. Zell, the genius, the billionaire who cared, the oil-industry captain who protected the environment, the decent human being, the beacon of hope.

  If he turned out to be another abuser, who thought a fat salary paid for her body in his bed, then the world was indeed a bleak place.

  She could hear tapping at her door. She wiped the tears
from her face and went to answer it.

  It was Anton. He was already dressed. She had forgotten how handsome he was; his deep blue eyes jolted her.

  ‘I’m glad you’re up. We need to make an early start.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Make me a cup of coffee, Worthington. The kettle in my room is broken.’

  ‘Of course.’ She let him in and fumbled with the coffee things.

  ‘Have you been crying?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s just rain,’ she said, her back to him. ‘I’ve been standing on the balcony. The view is really something. I didn’t see it last night, it was dark and—’

  He touched her sarong. ‘You’re soaked! What were you thinking of?’ His strong hands closed around her shoulders and drew her round to face him. He looked down into her face. ‘Amy, what is wrong with you? Are you ill?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. She tried to sound brave, but she was trembling in his grip.

  ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ he asked quietly. ‘Something I should know?’

  She managed to laugh. ‘Oh, no. I think I got a tummy bug yesterday and I didn’t sleep very well, that’s all. It’s over now. Do I look that bad?’

  He seemed unsatisfied with her prevarication. ‘Don’t hide things from me, Worthington. Don’t even try. I assure you that I will find out every single thing about you in the end. So if there’s something to say, say it now.’

  ‘There’s n-nothing!’ she stammered.

  ‘What happened last night? One minute we were having fun, the next you were running for cover. What went wrong? Was it something I said?’

  Amy took a deep breath. Just looking into that face made her heart pound like a trip hammer. He was a very suspicious man—and a frighteningly perceptive one. She tried hard to give him a more genuine smile. ‘No. It was just the bug. Sometimes these things require a fast exit.’

  He nodded. ‘All right, if you say so. At least you look more like yourself again. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.’

  ‘I don’t have a tail.’

  ‘You have bright eyes. Usually. They’re a lovely shade of grey, but sometimes they go absolutely black.’

  ‘Do they?’ she said with a breathless laugh.