His Girl Monday To Friday. Linda Miles

night.

      ‘A good deal!’

      ‘Did anyone ever tell you you’re beautiful when you’re angry?’ she asked dreamily.

      ‘Are we going to have to go through this every morning?’ Charles asked through gritted teeth.

      ‘Every morning!’ Barbara stared at him in horror. ‘You don’t start this early every morning!’

      ‘I do,’ he said even more grittily. ‘And so will you.’

      ‘No, I won’t,’ said Barbara. She put down her coffee and stood up. ‘The deal’s off. I’m not going through this for a year. I’ve done the minutes in English, French and German. There are about ten copies of each on my desk; they should be pretty clear. I really don’t think your seventeen-minute start in dictation would have been that much of a handicap for me, but it’s not my problem. I’m going to Sardinia.’

      Charles stalked out to her desk. He came back, leafing through a set of minutes.

      ‘These are good,’ he said.

      ‘So glad you like them,’ said Barbara. She started on another croissant.

      Charles paced up and down, turning the pages.

      ‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘You can start at eight.’

      ‘I’d rather go to Sardinia,’ said Barbara, ‘but I did say I’d take the job. I might be willing to start at nine.’

      Charles seemed about to say something when his eye was caught by the German minutes, which were now on the top of the stack. He gritted his teeth again.

      ‘Your problem is your blood sugar is low,’ Barbara explained helpfully. ‘That’s why it’s so important to eat a good breakfast. Otherwise you’re likely to be irritable and short-tempered.’

      ‘I’m not irritable—’ he began.

      ‘Have a croissant,’ urged Barbara. ‘Or a Danish pastry. It will help you to get everything in perspective.’

      Charles threw the minutes onto a nearby chair. ‘I must be mad,’ he remarked.

      ‘No, you just have low blood sugar,’ Barbara reassured him. ‘Have something to eat and you’ll feel much better.’

      For a moment she wondered whether she’d gone too far. She kept forgetting she no longer had to deal with the easygoing, self-mocking seventeen-year-old Charles who’d laughed at her teasing. Now she was dealing with the driven, self-made entrepreneur who clearly saw her as the single greatest obstacle in his race to take over Eastern Europe. On the other hand, if she once started being scared of Charles...

      ‘Have something to eat and you’ll make me feel better,’ she went on provocatively. ‘I went to all this trouble to bring something for you—it’s simple good management to show your appreciation. When a member of staff goes out of her way to do something helpful you should show you appreciate the initiative. It’s good for staff morale.’

      It occurred to her that she suddenly felt wide awake—wonderful what arguing with Charles did to sweep away the cobwebs.

      The spark of temper in his eyes showed he knew she was baiting him. ‘I’ll have something if it will hurry you up finishing your own breakfast and getting on with work,’ he said.

      He put a couple of croissants on a plate and took one of the cups of coffee.

      Barbara swivelled in the big leather chair. Around and around. ‘What a marvellous chair,’ she remarked on her fourth time around. ‘Do you ever do this?’

      ‘No,’ said Charles.

      ‘Too busy,’ said Barbara, rotating again. ‘Too important. Things to do, people to see. Got to set a good example for the staff.’

      She put a foot down to stop the chair so that it faced the window. It was only seven-thirty, and the street was still fairly empty—but people were coming down it in ones and twos, a briefcase in one hand, a gym bag in the other, and all these early risers were disappearing through the doors of the Mallory Corporation building. No doubt the effect of Mr Mallory’s good example. There was something depressing about it.

      ‘Dictations to dictate,’ she added flippantly. She gave the wall a kick with her foot to start the chair around again.

      It swivelled perhaps three inches, before coming to an abrupt stop. Barbara found that she was now looking up into the thunderous face of the good example to his staff. She was about to protest indignantly when the Great Motivator took hold of her arms and pulled her roughly to her feet.

      ‘Don’t you think it’s about time you grew up?’ Charles was speaking through clenched teeth. She must have hit a sore spot. Well, it was good to know there was a chink in his armour.

      ‘I am grown up,’ said Barbara. ‘I don’t personally call not swivelling in chairs the benchmark of maturity—’

      ‘Neither do I,’ Charles agreed drily. ‘I was thinking of a few other things, such as doing something with the talents you’ve been throwing away ever since I’ve known you. You should have people to see and things to do yourself. You should have a company of your own, damn it. You could do anything you want—’

      ‘I was doing exactly what I wanted before you interfered,’ said Barbara breathlessly.

      He was still holding her arms; the brilliant eyes blazed down into hers. Unbidden, the thought came to her that he might have held her just so if he’d meant to kiss her. It was something she’d imagined about five thousand times, at a conservative estimate, and this was as close as she was ever likely to get: Charles glaring down at her for not wearing shoulder pads and running a boardroom.

      A sardonic eyebrow shot up. ‘The ambition takes my breath away.’

      Her eyes fell to the firm, sensuous mouth, now curved in something uncomfortably like contempt. What would happen if she kissed him instead? At least she’d know what it was like...

      ‘I don’t know why you’re complaining,’ she said, dragging her eyes back to meet his. ‘I thought you needed a multilingual secretary. Where would you be if I weren’t?’

      ‘Struggling along somehow, I imagine.’ He shook her impatiently. ‘We both know you’ve a good mind. I don’t underestimate myself and, unless yours has mysteriously deteriorated since the age of eleven, I’d say yours is as good as mine. What do you expect me to think when I see someone as good as I am making silly jokes and swinging in my chair like a pretty fool with straw for a brain? Do you think it makes it better that you’re not a man? You should be ashamed of yourself.’

      Barbara stared into his eyes. How beautiful they were—the green iris rimmed with black, the lashes thick and long, and then above, the black slash of brow... She zeroed in on the essential element in the lecture.

      ‘Do you really think I’m pretty?’ she asked.

      Charles ground his teeth. He dropped his hands from her arms in disgust. ‘This is a waste of time. I’ve got work to do. Forget I said anything. Do whatever you want with your life as long as it includes typing up dictation for an hour before the meeting.’

      ‘Yesterday you said I was beautiful,’ said Barbara. ‘Did you mean it?’

      He flicked her a glance. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Can we get back to work?’

      ‘But,’ said Barbara.

      ‘But what?’

      ‘Nothing,’ said Barbara. She had the feeling that if she said anything she would say something so stupid it would permanently destroy his flattering estimate of her intelligence. She could almost hear herself blurting out, ‘If I start my own company will you kiss me?’ Bad idea. ‘If I win a Nobel prize, I mean just supposing, would you maybe just for one night—?’ No. No. No.

      It was getting up so early that had thrown