His office was larger than she had expected and furnished with a panache she had not expected, either: gray carpet, so dark as to be almost black, with one gray wall and two white ones; modern Italian furniture complementing the three excellent modern paintings, and a desk, a curving sweep of rich mahogany, that almost matched the reddish brown leather armchairs that stood like guards in front of him. His own chair was of the swivel variety and framed him like the velvet robes of an emperor as he swung around in it to greet her, half rising from his chair and not sitting back in it until she had sat down, too.
He was more severely dressed than she had seen him previously and, in a dark blue suit and crisp white shirt, looked a facsimile of the very "city types" about whom he was always so scathing. Idly she wondered if he had come back on the overnight sleeper; that could account for his appearance. Even as she thought this, he stifled a yawn and gave a grunt of half irritation, half tiredness.
"Never could manage to get a decent night's sleep on a train," he said and leaned his head back against his chair.
"You should have gone home for a rest."
He did not answer this, almost as though her comment was too stupid to warrant it. "You answered my note very promptly," he said, pointing to her coat.
Not wishing to think that fear of him had prompted her speed, she shrugged. "Once I start work, I hate any interruptions. That's why I came here first."
"I see. I thought it might have been because you'd heard."
"Heard what?"
"The reason I didn't go home for a rest before coming in here."
Although he was still speaking quietly, she was only now aware that it was the quietness of pent-up anger, rather than tiredness, as if he were curbing himself for fear of an explosion.
Unaccountably she felt a tremor of nervousness. "What's wrong, Mr. Andrews? Anything I've done?"
"It's pretty nearly everything you've done! I've spent the past hour talking my way out of a strike."
"A strike!"
"You heard me!"
"But why? What have-"
"Your rabbit food!" he exclaimed. "That's why."
" I don't know what you're talking about."
"That's obvious. You never have known, more's the pity. If you'd more appreciation of the way other people think, none of this would have happened.''
He leaned forward in his chair. He was making no effort to keep his voice down now, and it boomed around her like a stormy sea. His eyes mirrored the simile, the sparkling lights in them giving them the sharpness of ice.
"Didn't you know that the takings from the canteen have dropped by half in the past two weeks, or are you still too busy painting walls and putting up fancy pictures?"
"Ofcourse I've noticed that the money has lessened. I intended talking to Mr. Carpenter about it this week."
"This week?" he roared. "What was wrong with talking to him about it last week? Or were you hoping that if you said nothing the whole thing would blow over?"
"I didn't realize it was so serious." With an effort she forced herself to stay calm. "I still don't know exactly where I'm at fault in all this. If you could just tell me calmly—"
"Don't talk to me about being calm! If I weren't calm I'd have thrown you out the minute you got in this morning!"
She stood up. "Then I 'll save you the bother."
"Sit down!"
Shakily she did so and glared at him.
"Will you kindly control your temper and tell me what it is that I have done? Try to think of me as 'one of your men,' Mr. Andrews. That should at least guarantee your civility!"
He had the grace to color, though he did not apologize, but when he spoke again his voice was lower. "They can't stand the food you've been giving them. It's as simple as that."
Astonishment succeeded in silencing her. He had to be joking; nothing else could account for what he had said. Yet he did not look as if he were joking.
His eyes were still glacial and his mouth was clamped tight.
"I plan every menu myself," she said carefully. "They're perfectly balanced and—"
"Balanced be damned! All the men care about is filling their stomachs with food they enjoy. Summat they can get their teeth into—not lettuce leaves and ^pink blancmange!"
"I've never served pink—"
"You know what I mean," he said wearily. "Stop playing with words. You were hired to feed grown men doing a hard day's work; not rich dowagers in a.posh nursing home!"
"Keep your prejudices to yourself," she flared. "Sick people are sick whether they're rich or poor!"
"I know," he said flatly. "I was merely trying to make you see that you can't change people's eating habits in a matter of weeks. Every region has its own tastes, and up here people like meat and two veg and a decent sweet they can get their teeth into."
"Their false teeth!" she retorted. "On your sort of diet they won't have their own very long."
"Let's not start a crusade," he gibed. "Just concern yourself with the job you were engaged to do."
"In your eyes I'm not qualified to do it. It's far better if I resign. If you wish, I'll stay here until you've found a replacement."
"I don't want you to resign. It will upset your father."
"Was that why you engaged me in the first place— because you thought it would make him happy?"
"That was one of the reasons. And also because you had the right qualifications."
"Not right enough," she said tartly. "I'd prefer to go. And you needn't worry that I'll let my boredom affect my father. I'll be so happy to leave here that I'll never complain again!"
"Stop talking rubbish! You know damn well you've got the right qualifications. And you're also a hard worker. I know the long hours you've put in, and I appreciate it. All I want you to do is use your common sense. Stop being the thinking-man's dietitian .and act like a working-class one!"
"By serving up stodge! Never." She rose again and swung around to the door.
"For God's sake sit down!"
He spoke in a tone of such exasperation that, although she did not obey him, she at least remained where she was: poised for flight but not yet going.
"I don't know why you're so determined to quarrel with me," he continued. "No matter what I say, you turn it into something different. Of course I don't want you to serve up stodge! But I equally don't want you to go on serving up lettuce leaves. Give the men a choice and let them decide for themselves."
"Optional menus can be expensive," she replied frigidly. "And I've always made it a point to work within my budget."
"What happens to my budget when the takings fall by half?" Seeing her discomfort he gave a sour smile. "Hadn't thought of that, had you?"
"No, I hadn't. I'm sorry."
"Well, well, that's the first time you've ever apologized to me!"
Coolly she surveyed him, neither by gesture nor expression giving him an inkling of her rage and humiliation. That he should have cause to complain of the menus she prepared!
"Get down from your high horse, lass!" Once again his temper had gone, though his accent still indicated that emotion was near the surface. "You're working on the right track, even though the train was going too fast! Give the men six months and they might come around to your way of thinking. It's up to you. Make your kind of food attractive enough and they might all end up with salad and soya beans! But don't forget to serve the food they like. That way they won't feel you're forcing them. And before we leave the subject, let me say I know that high-starch diets lower your energy and high-protein ones increase it!" His smile this time could only be described as wolfish. "Satisfied?"
"You are the one who has to be satisfied," she said in her driest tone.
"Well, I will be, as long as you take notice of me. Tell me what increase in budget you want, and I'll authorize it. We'll review the position in a month's time and see if the takings have reverted to normal. If they haven't, we'll have to think again. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly. Would you li
ke to check the menus each week?"
"No thanks. I'm sure you'll do as you've been told."
"Thank you."
She was at the door when he spoke again. "From now on, I won't be having my lunch on a tray. I'll eat in the canteen."
Her face flamed. "Wouldn't it be less bother for you to check the menus, as I suggested?"
Blankly he stared at her; then he frowned. "I'm not planning to check that you are doing as you promised. I thought it would help if the men could see that I don't treat myself any differently from the way I treat them!"
"Then I'll expect you today, Mr. Andrews. I'll make sure you have your suet pudding!"
"With a salad on the side," he called to her departing back and, as she closed the door sharply on him, she had to concede that as always, he had had the last word.
True to his promise, Jake Andrews had lunch in the canteen nearly every day, only absenting himself when unusual pressure of work forced him to have a tray sent to his office.
Also true to his word he had a salad with every meal, and though she tried not to notice what he ordered, she was aware that his knowledge of food value was excellent. Regardless of the choice he insisted upon for his men, he himself preferred the maximum amount of vegetables, fruit and cheese, and the minimum of starch and sugar.
Two weeks passed without there being any noticeable increase in canteen revenue. Only the expenditure remained higher. And this despite the steak and kidney pies, black puddings and suet rolls she featured regularly on the menu!
It was well into the middle of the fourth week when she received a summons to the general manager's office. Remembering the haste with which she had responded to the first one, she took her time in answering this, and it was well into the afternoon before she presented herself.
As usual he was surrounded by a welter of papers and blueprints, and glimpsing some of the intricate diagrams she was forced to admit he must have above average intelligence to have reached the position he now occupied.
Without speaking he motioned her to sit down, then went on making notes on a sheet of paper already covered with hieroglyphics.
Rarely had she had the chance to study him without being observed, and in the glare of the fluorescent tubes, which turned his desk top into a merciless reflector, she was able to see a few gleams of silver in the dark unruly hair. He was far too young to be turning gray, she thought, and at the same time noticed the blue shadows on his eyelids. Hard though he drove others, he was an equally hard taskmaster with himself. Unless he learned to relax he would be old before his time.
"That's done," he said with satisfaction and pushed aside the papers in front of him. At the same time he straightened and stared directly into her face.
Again she saw him with more clarity than she would have wished, and discerned the fine lines around his eyes and the heavier ones that marked his mouth: that mocking, cruel mouth. Quickly she averted her gaze.
"If you're busy I can come back later, "she said.
"I'll be even busier then."
"I thought men at the top learned how to delegate."
"I'm not at the top yet. But thanks for the compliment."
She avoided his eyes. "I suppose you wish to see me about the canteen?"
"I do. The takings are going up. I thought you'd be pleased to know."
"I'm giving the men what they want." Laura kept her voice expressionless. "It's obviously working—as you knew it would. If I cut out the salads and fruit desserts, you'll need to subsidize it even less."
"I don't want you to cut out anything," he replied. "And you're still trying to make me say the things you'd like me to!"
"The things I'd like you to?"
"Aye. And don't look so surprised. You want me to tell you to cut out the salad and fruit. You want me to conform to the picture you've built up about me. That I'm a gormless lout trying to ape my betters!"
There was sufficient truth in his remark to make her careful how she replied to it. Drat the man for being able to read her thoughts! And drat him for making her feel so small.
"We don't like each other," she said slowly, "so we're both on the defensive. I'm always anticipating that you'll make some snide remark about my being a sophisticated Londoner, while you're waiting to hear me call you a country bumpkin!"
He chuckled. "You've hit the nail on the head. Looks like we're both at fault."
Unexpectedly he rose and moved around the side of the desk, pausing to stand a few feet away from her.
Forced to tilt back her head in order to see him, she found he looked different when viewed from below. How firm his chin was and how thick and sinewy his neck. Here was no boy to tease or mock, but a man of fierce pride and even fiercer temper.
"How do you feel about beginning again?" he suggested. "Pretend we're meeting for the first time today?"
"I don't think that's really necessary." Embarrassment made her stiff. "But it might better for us if we weren't enemies."
"We were never that!" he said emphatically. "I could never think of a woman as an enemy."
"Why not?"
He nibbled his lower lip, seemingly nonplussed. "Because… because I couldn't. I don't know why."
"Because you don't regard women as your equals. That's why! You see them as second-class citizens that you can easily overrule."
"By God, that's rich!"
Sensing his mounting rage, she pushed back her chair and stepped away from him. Even so she could smell the shaving lotion he used. It was the same kind she had given Tim for Christmas. Yet on this man it had a different scent, compounded of part tobacco and part indefinable masculinity that set her nerves on edge.
"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I—er—I seem to be putting us back to square one."
"Never mind that. I'm just interested in what you've said. You obviously see no difference between the sexes. In your world, women are as strong and as capable as men."
"Exactly."
"They're not," he said flatly. "They're more emotional and less logical. They're also more anxious for security, which is understandable when you consider they bear the children, and they want to be protected and cherished by the men they love."
Unable to stop herself, Laura burst out laughing. Despite his intelligence, Jake Andrews's assessment of women was rooted in the past, not the present.
"What sort of girls do you know?" she asked. "Freaks?"
"Women," he said slowly. "Genuine, loving women. The kind who put their menfolk before themselves, who look on a home and children as sufficient career without the need to prove themselves in any other way."
"You talk like a Victorian."
"I talk like a realist. Perhaps some women put a career before marriage and would rather have a degree instead of a baby. But-"
" Why can't women have both?'' Because children need caring for—like men! You can't put 'em in the deep freeze and take 'em out when it suits you!"
"I agree about the children," Laura said, striving not to lose her temper, "but men aren't babies to be cared for in the same way. If they contribute properly to a marriage, with their time as well as their money—"
"Then women could work in the same way as men," Jake Andrews finished for her. "Women like you, maybe. The unusual ones. But I still say that most females, given the choice, would rather stay home."
"Not the women I've met. We don't only come from different parts of the country, Mr. Andrews, we come from a different century!"
"Maybe that's why I've never found you real," he said slowly. "Why I look at you and see a truly beautiful girl who never even stirs my pulses. I've often wondered if I was sickening for something. Never met a lovely-looking female yet who didn't do something to me! And then you came along—figure like a goddess and hair like fire—but you leave me cold. Stone cold."
"Then maybe this will warm you up!" Before she could stop herself, Laura's hand shot out and caught him a stinging blow on the cheek.
In the silence that followed she saw the
mark of her fingers grow pink on his skin and felt her own skin grow pink with the shame of it. How could she have let him rile her into behaving like a shrew?
"Ifyou wish to fire me… " she said stonily.
"Fire you?" he repeated, then suddenly grinned. "Fire you, lass? Why, I feel like giving you a raise!" He stepped forward and peered into her eyes, his own gleaming with mischief. "You've just shown me how wrong I was. You're a woman after all, Laura Winters. One day you might even quicken my pulses!"
Admitting defeat, she rushed to the door, aware of his chuckle following her down the corridor and out into the cold fresh air.
She would have given a great deal never to see Jake
Andrews again, but to leave Grantley's would be an admission of defeat; might make him think he had hurt her pride by professing his lack of appreciation for her beauty.
Determined not to let him know she even remembered his scathing comments about her, she went out of her way to be polite and uncaring in his presence, though each time they met she found it progressively harder to keep her temper.
Fate, or perhaps the man's own determination to annoy her, made him a frequent visitor to the house during the following month, and despite the fact that he and her father spent their time with their heads bent over blueprints, it in no way lessened her awareness of his presence. The mere knowledge that he was close at hand gave her a feeling of claustrophobia, and whenever possible she made an excuse to go out and leave them alone.
Inevitably she drew closer to Robert, his open admiration a balm to her vanity. Although she realized that by seeing more of him she was giving him encouragement to believe that one day she might come to care for him, she deliberately closed her mind to it. Whatever happened, he was infinitely preferable to Jake Andrews.
"I thought you said you weren't keen on Robert?" her father reminded her one Sunday afternoon as she came into the sitting room, coat over her arm.
"I said I wasn't in love with him, "she corrected. "And that still goes. "She dropped her coat over the back of the chair and answered the next question before it came. "Seeing him is better than going out on my own."
Rachel Lindsay - Rough Diamond Lover Page 6
