His Girl Monday To Friday. Linda Miles

it all seemed so dreamlike. She dreamed about Charles sometimes, and he was always much nicer in her dreams than he was in real life, so that in the small hours of the morning—around eight, say—Charles would kiss her or she would kiss Charles and she would try as hard as she could not to wake up.

      He ejected a tape from the recorder and handed it to her. ‘Get started on this and see how far you get. I’ve just given the names and the gist. You can flesh out the letters and I’ll vet them when you’re done.’

      This was the genuine Mallory mode. For some reason it was only now that he’d reverted to type that she was struck by how completely out of character his outburst had been. At the time it had seemed just another case of Charles ordering people around. But...

      She stared down at him, ignoring the tape in the peremptorily outstretched hand.

      Since when had Charles ever been interested in anyone but himself? At seventeen he’d been self-centred and lazy; now he was self-centred and driven. And since when had he been so completely inconsistent? Last week she’d just been a cog he wanted in his machine, and he’d gone about getting it with his usual ruthlessness. Yesterday he’d been just the same. Now it seemed no sooner had he got her than he was telling her ruthlessly that she was wasting her life as a humble cog.

      What was going on?

      She’d once had a dream in which it turned out that Charles had been in love with her all along. Unfortunately, she’d never been able to have it again, and it didn’t look as though life was going to improve on the dream—it wasn’t exactly likely that Charles, who was confidence personified, would keep his feelings to himself. But in that case... Well, was it just something left over from his days as honorary older brother?

      ‘Do you think I should start a company?’ Barbara asked.

      He glanced up at her, his expression unreadable. ‘Do whatever you like.’

      ‘Do you think I could?’ she asked.

      ‘Considering that you say you get bored with anything that lasts more than a month, I’d say almost certainly not.’

      Barbara felt that she was somehow not getting to the bottom of this, but she didn’t know what else to ask. She took the tape from his hand; as her fingers brushed his an electric shock seemed to travel from his fingers to hers and up her arm. She snatched her hand away, watching him covertly to see if he’d noticed anything—or perhaps felt it too. But Charles was already slotting a new tape into the recorder.

      She took the cardboard tray, with its one remaining coffee and a few stray pastries, out to her desk and turned on the computer. None of the other secretaries on the floor were in yet, but more people were turning up with briefcases and the ubiquitous gym bags.

      Some of them seemed to be in fairly good shape, but none seemed to have emerged bristling with energy like Charles. In fact, Barbara thought, some of them looked almost haggard. Charles drove people hard, she knew, and she knew it often had the effect of galvanising them to achieve things they couldn’t have otherwise. But should they really all look so tired?

      Her forehead creased in a slight frown. Soon she’d forgotten the problems, however, and was deep into turning Charles’s cryptic comments into courteous, businesslike letters.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      TWENTY Eastern European businessmen sat around a large conference table, making important-looking notes on yellow pads. Sometimes one would say something in German, and someone else who was lucky enough not to know the language would give Miss Woodward a winning smile and ask her to translate. ‘It will be easier if you sit beside me, yes?’ he would say, and nineteen envious pairs of eyes would follow the dazzling redhead as she made her way around the table.

      Well, he’d be envious too if he didn’t know her better, Charles thought wryly, watching Barbara slip into a chair with a charming smile. In fact, if he didn’t know her better he’d definitely want to know her better, he thought, his eyes lingering, in spite of himself, on the vivid face. Just as well he knew what an obstinate, crossgrained, exasperating—He remembered suddenly that he’d as good as held her in his arms that morning. He might as well have kissed her for all the good talking had done.

      He saw in his mind’s eye the sleep-drenched blue eyes, the soft, full mouth, and in his imagination his head bent and—No. Charles brought his imagination under control with an effort.

      He couldn’t afford to think that way. The meeting was actually going well. Now that Barbara was there at least they weren’t glaring at each other with the look that said, I have no idea what you’re talking about but I don’t care because I don’t like you. He needed a permanent secretary. He was about to pay a lot of money to get Barbara to keep the oils wheeled for the next year. He couldn’t afford to even think about jeopardising that by even thinking about what it might be like to... With more effort he brought his imagination under control again.

      Another speaker started talking in English. The man to Charles’s left directed a charming, helpless smile at Miss Woodward and asked her to translate. The nineteen envious pairs of eyes followed Barbara as she walked back around the table and took a seat between Mallory and the man who was lucky enough not to know English. Charles suppressed a smile as Barbara bent towards the visitor and murmured something in the visitor’s language of choice.

      She should really stop wasting her talents one of these days, he thought. He should have another talk with her about that, he thought, and remembered again his last talk with her, about wasting her talents, and remembered that he couldn’t afford to think that way.

      ‘Well, I think we’ve reached an agreement in principle,’ he said. ‘Let’s move on to the next question.’

      Barbara translated in a low voice for the man beside her. The meeting didn’t seem to be going too badly, she thought. It was hard to stay on top of everything because as well as translating she was also trying to take notes, and as well as trying to take notes she was also trying not to notice Charles. Well, she thought she was doing all right with two out of the three. Part of her mind was taken up with turning English into serviceable German, part was engaged in the fraught task of transcribing the rather heated discussions and part watched Charles, effortlessly dominating the room.

      Her confrontation with him that morning seemed to have made her even more acutely aware of him. In spite of herself, her eyes were drawn to the hard, clean line of his jaw, the fierce nose, the eyes as bracing as cold seawater.

      What it would be like to go through a year of this she couldn’t imagine.

      On the other hand, she reminded herself, she had permission to start work at nine. She wouldn’t be seeing Charles alone at a time when they should really both have been in bed. She would just have to avoid seeing him at odd hours, and maybe everything would be all right.

      

      A week went by in which Barbara thought she could follow this resolution. Charles continued to come in at a time which was really late the previous day and he usually left around nine for a dinner date. Barbara came in at nine and stayed until ten or eleven or twelve, and she kept meticulous records of every extra second of her overtime. During the day there was so much work she was able to keep her mind off handsome, horrible Charles for five or even ten minutes at a time. He didn’t make any more comments on her looks. He didn’t tell her to start a company. Everything was going to be just fine.

      But nothing could ever be fine around Charles for long.

      As well as making an assault on Eastern Europe, the company was still expanding aggressively within the UK. It was making a bid to develop a highly dedicated version of Mallory software for one of the biggest corporations in the country, along with a comprehensive set of training materials, and the bid had been delegated to one of Charles’s brilliant, hard-working subordinates.

      Mike Carlin was also in charge of developing potential Polish clients, a brief which had turned out to be bigger than they’d expected. On Monday afternoon Charles called him in to check progress. Barbara sat, taking notes. Mike