A Professional Marriage. Jessica Steele

she was looking into a pair of inscrutable sharp blue eyes.

      He was unsmiling at first, but then relaxed to say quietly, ‘You’re turning out to be something of a treasure, Chesnie Cosgrove.’

      Her heart gave the most peculiar bump, and she was so delighted by the compliment that she almost fell for his charm and smiled. But she wasn’t forgetting his attitude earlier in the day, so she remained pleasant, but otherwise aloof, as—like any well-brought-up PA would—she wished him a pleasant trip and went home.

      Strangely—or perhaps, she mused, it wasn’t so strange—Joel Davenport was in her head very much that night. She could not remember ever being so annoyed with an employer before. Hector Browning didn’t count; it was his father she had worked for.

      Feeling unable to settle, Joel Davenport still in her head, she rang her sister at half past nine. ‘I expected you to ring before this,’ Nerissa said by way of apology. ‘He rang, didn’t he?’

      ‘Did you have to tell him where I work?’

      ‘What else could I do? You said not to give him your phone number. And anyway, I ran out of excuses. Where’s he taking you?’

      ‘I don’t know. He’s calling for me at—’

      ‘Hah!’ Nerissa cut in. ‘You’re going out with him!’

      Chesnie had to laugh. ‘Tomorrow,’ she agreed, then chatted for another few minutes and rang off—to have Joel Davenport back in her head. He thought she was a treasure. She found she was smiling—and quickly cancelled that. Soft soap!

      As anticipated, she was less busy on Thursday, and was extremely pleased that she seemed to coast through her work that day. True, there wasn’t the same buzz about the office with Joel not there, but at least it looked as if she would be leaving on time that night. Which would suit her quite nicely. Time to go home, have a relaxing bath and get ready to go out with Philip Pomeroy.

      At five past four she glanced at her watch, assessed the work she still had to do and knew for certain that she would be leaving at five. The best-laid plans…

      At four-thirty her phone rang. ‘Joel Davenport’s office,’ she answered pleasantly.

      ‘Hello, Chesnie,’ the man himself answered, and her insides went all kind of crumbly. Ridiculous, she told herself stoutly. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ he began, not sounding sorry at all, ‘but I’ve arranged an early meeting in London tomorrow. Do you think you can have some paperwork ready for me?’

      ‘Of course,’ she answered automatically, and had her notepad in hand. ‘Fire away.’

      She was getting writer’s cramp before he was halfway finished. Was he joking? It would take her hours to complete this little lot! She almost stopped him then and there, to remind him that she had a date that night. But remembered in time how at her job interview he had asked her supposing she had a date but he needed her to accompany him at short notice. Without hesitation she’d indicated it would not be a problem—that she would change her plans for the evening. This wasn’t accompanying him anywhere, but it amounted to the same thing.

      ‘I haven’t given you too much to do there, have I?’ he asked, when he eventually came to an end.

      ‘What are treasures for?’ she found she had answered, before she could think about it.

      ‘I knew I could rely on you,’ he commented charmingly, and rang off.

      Chesnie was busying herself making a start, collecting information together, before she realised that there was no way she could get everything sorted, no way she could type up reams and reams of confidential matter, and keep her date with Philip Pomeroy.

      Her hand went to the phone, but before she could carry out her intention to put a call through to Symington Technology she had another thought. How about if she got all the paperwork already to hand checked over, then typed as much as she could of the new stuff before she went home? Then, with her computer installed at home in that apology for a second bedroom, she could work as late as she had to after her dinner with Philip. Brilliant, or what?

      Having gone over the notion, Chesnie couldn’t fault the idea. She’d have to get up early to have everything ready on Joel’s desk for when he came in—she wished she knew what time that was—but couldn’t see any problem. If this was what being a senior PA was all about, then she would prove she was very much up to the job.

      She was glad to make herself comfortable in Philip Pomeroy’s car on the way to the restaurant. It was the first chance she’d had to sit and relax since that half past four phone call. She had rushed from the office at five past six, laden with folders and stationery. She had taken the quickest of showers and had selected a short-sleeved, straight-skirted black dress. Although her wardrobe was not extensive it was of good quality. She had been ready and, anxious not to waste a minute, had been busy typing when the outer door buzzer had sounded, announcing the arrival of her escort.

      The Linton, the restaurant Philip had chosen, was elegant, discreet, and, she didn’t doubt, pricey. Chesnie found Philip Pomeroy a pleasant companion, too sophisticated to be obvious or pushy, and she began to relax more and more.

      ‘I had no idea you worked for Joel Davenport,’ Philip remarked as they began their meal. ‘You can’t have been at Yeatman Trading long or I’m sure I’d have heard.’

      That surprised her. Then she wondered if it should have. Being a business rival, would Joel know the name of Philip’s PA? Very probably he did, she mused.

      ‘I’ve worked for Joel for almost two months now,’ she saw no harm in admitting.

      ‘You changed jobs around the same time you moved into your new flat,’ Philip documented. ‘How do you find working for Davenport? Is he—?’

      ‘Hmm, I’m sorry, Philip, would you mind very much if neither of us talked about our work?’

      He stared at her, plainly liked what he saw, and agreed. ‘It’s a pact. Business if off the agenda. But—’ he smiled ‘—you can tell Davenport from me that he’s a lucky devil, able to look at you every day. Now, tell me how you’re settling in to your new flat?’

      During their second course Chesnie learned that Philip had been married and divorced. That didn’t worry her—who hadn’t? She was growing to like him very much, even though she knew that it would never be more than that. He was amusing, and had just said something that made her laugh when, glancing from him, laughter still on her curving lips, she was startled to find she was looking into the steel-blue eyes of someone several tables away. The glint in those eyes warned her she was in trouble over something.

      With a coolness she was suddenly far from feeling Chesnie turned back to her dinner companion. She offered some light comment, she knew not what, her mind busy with the fact that Joel Davenport had flown back from Scotland and all too plainly, if her answers at the job interview meant anything, fully expected her to still be slaving away at the office.

      It annoyed her that he should think she had fallen down on the job. And that annoyance caused her to smile more, perhaps laugh a little more, at Philip’s amusingly light conversation than she would otherwise.

      At any rate Philip seemed pleased, and she didn’t give a button what Davenport thought. She knew what he didn’t—that she was going home to do his work so he should have it on his desk for eight in the morning. So he could go and take a running jump.

      ‘More coffee?’ Philip asked.

      ‘No, thank you,’ she refused pleasantly. ‘It’s been a super evening, but…’

      ‘But you’re a working girl?’

      ‘Something like that,’ she answered with a smile, and smiled again when, having to pass Davenport’s table—curse it—Philip civilly paused to say hello.

      ‘Pomeroy,’ Joel acknowledged, getting to his feet. ‘Chesnie.’ He included her, and introduced his sultry, if terrific-looking