His Girl Monday To Friday. Linda Miles

into something better if you want to. I don’t know why you’re so damned suspicious. All you’ve got going for you now is a record of Ds and the odd C, plus years of temping, which frankly isn’t the best passport into the higher echelons of the business world—’

      ‘I don’t want to be in the higher echelons of the business world,’ said Barbara. ‘I get bored too easily.’

      ‘I don’t think this will bore you,’ he retorted. ‘And you’d be ideal for the job. Stop playing hard to get.’

      Barbara gritted her teeth. ‘I’m not playing hard to get, Charles,’ she snapped. ‘I am hard to get. But if it means that much to you, fine. How much are you expecting to make out of this? I don’t mean income, but net profit?’

      ‘If it works, a couple of hundred million...’

      ‘All right,’ said Barbara. ‘I want a salary of £25,000.’

      ‘Done.’

      ‘Plus overtime.’

      ‘Done.’

      ‘Plus five per cent of the shares of the company.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You heard me,’ said Barbara.

      ‘Are you out of your mind?’

      ‘No,’ said Barbara, ‘I am not out of my mind. You’re out of your mind, Charles. If the right assistant is so crucial to the deal, you could take £100,000 and get people who are experts in these languages. You could get someone with terrific skills—you could even get someone who could cope with a dead fax machine in Vladivostok. And you’d still be quids in. If you have that much money to throw at it, you don’t need me. I’ll come in and type this up tomorrow, but I am going to Sardinia next month and nothing you can say or do can stop me.’

      Charles looked down into the snapping blue eyes of his pseudo-sister and wondered, briefly, whether the real thing could be half as exasperating. Did he really want to put up with this for a year? A standard-issue secretary would have been a puddle on the floor by now. He couldn’t have that, of course, but wasn’t it possible to have a secretary who just got on with the job, without starting World War III?

      He was about to tell Barbara to go to Sardinia and be sure not to write when the world-weary voice of Personnel echoed lugubriously in his mind. ‘The crème de la crème...can pick and choose,’ it said morosely. ‘They don’t like to be shouted at... We’re offering a competitive package...’ it said. ‘Experienced, highly qualified people... can get the same money and benefits elsewhere.’

      Well, he thought grimly, there’s competitive and there’s competitive.

      He looked at Barbara evenly.

      “That’s silly money,’ he said. ‘You know you’re not going to get it. So what you’re saying is, you’d like something off the charts compared to the going rate for the job. Make me another offer.’

      Barbara stared at him. The problem was, she didn’t want something off the charts—she just didn’t want the job. But if he was seriously prepared to throw serious money at her she could walk away from temping for an awfully long time...

      “There’s a new issue of shares for this venture, isn’t there?‘ she said.

      ‘Yes,’ he said curtly.

      ‘Five per cent of that,’ said Barbara.

      His eyes were as brilliant and as hard as emeralds. ‘Keep trying,’ he said.

      Barbara looked at him thoughtfully. Just how far was he willing to go? Or, to put it another way, what would irritate him the most? And suddenly she knew exactly what to say.

      A couple of years ago Charles had started up a tiny company to act as a launchpad for miscellaneous inventions that didn’t fit well in the main company. Compared to the big Mallory Corporation it was nothing—but Barbara had a hunch it would hit the stratosphere a few years down the line. The fact remained that on paper it wasn’t worth much. The price of its shares was low—mere was no reason in the world why Charles shouldn’t let her have a few of them.

      ‘Five per cent of Mallorin,’ she said. ‘And that’s my final offer.’

      He thrust his hands into his pockets. There was a long silence, in which he stared first at the carpet and then at Barbara with undisguised dislike.

      ‘All right, damn you,’ he said. ‘You’ll have the contract by the end of the week. But the Mallorin stock is conditional on your completing the year.’ He handed her the cassette from the day’s meeting. ‘For that kind of money I’d like the minutes typed up in time for tomorrow’s meeting. I want you in the office at seven a.m. sharp.’ And he strode from the conference room without waiting for a reply, and slammed the door shut behind him.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      BARBARY stayed at the office until midnight, coaxing the minutes into sense. She’d been hired for her languages so she prepared them in English, French and German, made copies and left the stacks on her desk.

      At six o’clock the next morning she woke to the bleat of her alarm clock. She turned it off and snuggled back into the covers. Why on earth had she set it for such an ungodly—?

      Argh.

      Blearily she sat up in bed and looked out of the window onto a glorious day. A perfect day for leaving for Sardinia. Instead she’d agreed to be a slave for a year for a mere five per cent of Mallorin. She should have stipulated ten per cent if she had to be out of bed by ten. Too late now.

      At seven-fifteen she staggered into the lift at Mallory, precariously balancing a cardboard tray laden with an assortment of pastries and three coffees. Charles could have one; it would take at least two, she reckoned, just to keep her eyes open.

      At seven-seventeen she emerged from the lift. Charles’s door was open.

      ‘You’re late,’ came the curt comment from within.

      Barbara approached the room gingerly. It faced east; brilliant yellow sunshine was streaming into the corridor. Narrowing her eyes, she entered the office and flinched.

      ‘I told you I wanted you here at seven.’ Charles was pacing up and down, a Dictaphone in his hand. He looked sickeningly fresh and energetic, his jaw freshly shaved, hair slicked down, eyes piercing, tie beautifully knotted.

      ‘I brought breakfast,’ said Barbara.

      ‘I don’t eat it,’ said Charles.

      ‘Naturally,’ said Barbara. ‘You’re too busy dictating. I understand. You just carry on and I’ll join you presently.’

      Charles scowled. ‘It’s a complete waste of time. If you have trouble waking up in the morning you’d do better to get some exercise. Go for a run as soon as you get up.’

      Barbara shuddered. ‘Is that what you did?’ she asked.

      ‘I went to the gym for an hour.’

      Barbara winced. She sank feebly into the nearest chair—the enormous, leather-covered chair that stood behind Charles’s desk. She stretched out a nerveless hand for her first caffe latte—she’d asked for three shots of espresso—and lifted it carefully to her lips.

      Charles prowled up and down in front of his desk.

      ‘Don’t mind me,’ Barbara said pleasantly, reviving slightly under the influence of the coffee. ‘I know you must want to get on with work.’

      She selected a croissant from the pile and bit into it Lovely, lovely food. Lovely coffee. Perhaps she would live.

      ‘I hope you’re not planning to calculate your overtime based on a seven o’clock start,’ Charles said acerbically. ’For this you think you’re worth five per cent of a company?‘

      Barbara