Guilty Love. CHARLOTTE LAMB

evaded, tossing the used tissue into her waste-paper basket.

      He stood there watching her, unconvinced; his black brows drawn together over those piercing grey eyes of his which saw too clearly.

      ‘What did your husband say when you told him you were working late?’ he asked, his tone making it obvious that he had put two and two together very accurately and didn’t like the answer. She wished he would mind his own business—he always had, until now. He had never asked so many questions before. Why was he doing it now?

      ‘He’s going to get himself a sandwich.’

      His mouth twisted. ‘Sure he can manage that?’

      ‘Don’t be sarcastic!’

      He gave her a surprised look and Linzi looked back, bristling, yet surprised by herself. She couldn’t remember ever snapping at him before.

      Drily Ritchie Calhoun said, ‘My mother brought me up to take care of myself, and anyone else who happens to come along! She used to say to me that one day my wife would thank her, but as it turned out I never got around to matrimony before she died, so she never got her thank-you. But I suppose that’s why men who expect their wives to wait on them hand and foot annoy me.’

      ‘Was your mother anything like you?’ Linzi asked curiously, and he gave her a sudden blindingly vivid smile, which astonished her. This really was a day for firsts! He had never given her a smile like that, any more than he had ever asked so many questions about her private life before.

      ‘I’d like to be able to say yes,’ he murmured with wry amusement. ‘But to be honest I don’t think so. I gather I take after my father’s side of the family. My mother was a small woman, with very straight, fine fair hair and...’ His voice breaking off, he stared at Linzi fixedly for a moment while she stared back, her blue eyes wide in puzzlement.

      ‘Yes?’ she prompted.

      ‘She looked something like you,’ Ritchie said slowly. ‘It didn’t dawn on me until just now, but it’s true. She had your build and colouring.’

      Maybe that was why had had decided on impulse to pick Linzi for his secretary although his common sense had told him that she was too young and too attractive? he thought. She had fitted some subterranean blueprint in his mind.

      Linzi was startled. ‘Really?’ Rather flattered, she smiled, her small face lighting up, and Ritchie blinked.

      ‘When you smile you look quite different,’ he said and she looked up at him, her blue eyes wide open.

      He smiled down at her, the hardness of his features softening into charm, and she said slowly, ‘So do you.’ And then an icy shiver ran down her back.

      Ritchie immediately picked up on her abrupt change of mood. ‘What is it now?’ he asked with a touch of his usual impatience.

      ‘Nothing,’ she said huskily. ‘Just a ghost walking over my grave.’

      CHAPTER TWO

      AS THE next weeks passed and summer deepened into richness, the gardens full of roses, lavender and the hum of bees, trees in full, green leaf, Linzi’s sense of uneasiness deepened, too.

      Since the afternoon when Ritchie Calhoun seemed to become curious about her and asked all those questions, their relationship had changed in an indefinable way. He began calling her Linzi, instead of Mrs York, and told her offhandedly, ‘You might as well call me Ritchie, by the way.’

      That had shaken her. When she first began working for him he’d taken care to let her know that he liked a formal boss-secretary relationship, and that had suited her, as well. It still did.

      Working every day with a man was an intimate business; you spent hours together, often alone; you couldn’t help getting to know each other well, and there were obvious risks in that, especially if your marriage was unstable and you were lonely or unhappy. She had been relieved that Ritchie Calhoun was so distant.

      It seemed to her unwise to drop that formality, but she didn’t quite like to argue over it. That might make it seem too important. So she let him call her Linzi, but when she spoke to him she usually still called him Mr Calhoun, pretending not to notice the dry look he gave her every time she did so.

      He was very busy with a project on which he’d been working for weeks. A new road was to be built to bypass a small town half an hour’s drive from Leeds. There were other construction companies competing for the contract but Ritchie felt sure he had the edge on them because it was the sort of job his firm had often handled in the past and he already had a lot of the machinery required, and a very good workforce, so he could keep his estimate low without taking the risk of cutting dangerous corners on the price of materials. If his firm was awarded the contract it would fit in very usefully with other work they had to complete during that period. It would mean, in fact, that he wouldn’t have to lay off any of the casual workers he hired for specific jobs, and Ritchie Calhoun was the sort of employer who liked to be able to offer his employees job stability.

      He might be a tough boss who insisted things were done his way, but he was popular with his men. He got his hands dirty, too; he thought nothing of working side by side with them, drinking in the pub with them, and knew all their first names. He could do any job on site and had forgotten more about building than most of them had yet learned. They thought he was a great guy and would work themselves to a standstill for him.

      Linzi had learnt to respect, him, too, which was another reason why she didn’t want to change jobs, if she could help it.

      July was very hot; nobody wanted to work much, everyone wore as little as possible, and had deep tans; dogs lay about, panting; beaches were crammed with people. Linzi had to work, though. She managed to get time off to go swimming in the local pool some days, but she had to work late every evening for a week, and Barty bitterly resented it.

      On the Friday evening Ritchie finally finished the long presentation he had been dictating to her for hours, which she keyed in to the computer while he walked about behind her talking. He came to a halt behind her, massaging the back of his neck.

      ‘God, I’m tired! That’s it, Linzi. You might as well get off home. You can print that out on Monday morning.’ Then he looked at the clock. ‘Is it that late? And you haven’t had a bite to eat since lunchtime? Why didn’t you say something? We could have had sandwiches brought in.’

      ‘Never mind, I’ll cook myself something when I get home.’ She had been sitting in one position for so long that when she got up cramp knotted her leg muscles and she staggered slightly.

      ‘Are you OK?’ Ritchie put an arm round her and for a second she leaned on him and was suddenly aware of his strength: it was like leaning on a rock. She felt intolerably weary at that instant; she wanted to put all her weight on him, cling, like ivy. She hadn’t been able to lean on anyone else for so long. She had had to be the strong one in her marriage ever since Barty’s accident. Oh, she’d told herself she didn’t need to lean; she could stand alone, could cope with whatever life threw at her, and no doubt she had this strange yearning only because she was exhausted and at the end of her tether.

      It didn’t mean any more than that, yet she was stricken, shamed by her fleeting weakness. Face burning, she stumbled away from him.

      ‘Sorry...I’m fine,’ she lied and was conscious of his sardonic, watchful gaze.

      ‘You don’t look it. You’re as white as a ghost. I’ve never seen you look so frail. I could kick myself for working you so hard, it was damned thoughtless of me. I’m sorry, Linzi—why don’t we go somewhere and have dinner, a bottle of wine to put some colour back in your face?’

      ‘No!’ she broke out wildly, and saw his brows rise at her tone. She bit her lip. ‘I...thanks, but I must get home.’

      ‘What are you scared of, Linzi?’ he drily asked. ‘That I’ll make a pass at you? I won’t, I assure you. I don’t make passes at married