Miss Prim and the Billionaire. Lucy Gordon

well, perhaps I’ve earned it.’

      ‘You must admit you left yourself rather exposed by allowing your father to think I’d already agreed. Still, I dare say that’s a useful method of—shall we say—proceeding without hindrance?’

      ‘It’s worked in the past,’ he conceded. ‘But you’re right, it can leave me vulnerable if someone decides to be difficult.’ He saw her lips twitching. ‘Have I said something funny?’

      ‘How would you define “difficult”? No, on second thoughts don’t say. I think I can guess. Someone who dares to hold onto their own opinion instead of meekly obeying you.’ She struck an attitude. ‘I wonder how I knew that.’

      ‘Possibly because you’re much the same?’ he suggested.

      ‘Certainly not. I’m far more subtle. But I don’t suppose you need to bother with subtlety.’

      ‘Not often,’ he agreed, ‘although I flatter myself I can manage it when the occasion demands.’

      ‘Well, there’s no demand for it now. Plain speaking will suit us both better, so I’ll say straight out that I’ve decided it would suit me to work for you, on certain conditions.’

      ‘The conditions being?’

      ‘Double the salary I’m earning now, as we discussed.’ ‘And how much is that?’

      She gave him the figure. It was a high one, but he seemed untroubled.

      ‘It’s a deal. Shake.’

      She took the hand he held out to her, bracing herself for the feel of his flesh against hers. Even so, it took all her control not to react to the warmth of his skin. So much had changed, but not this. After ten years it was still the hand that had touched her reverently, then skilfully and with fierce joy. The sensation was so intense that she almost cried out.

      From him there was no reaction.

      ‘I’m glad we’re agreed on that,’ he said calmly. ‘Now you can go and give in your notice. Be back here as soon as possible. Before you leave, we’d better exchange information. Email, cellphones.’

      She gave him her cellphone number, but he said, ‘And the other one.’

      ‘What other one?’

      ‘You’ve given me the number you give to everyone. Now I want the one you give to only a privileged few.’ ‘And what about your “privileged” number?’ He wrote it down and handed it to her. ‘Now yours.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t have one.’ ‘Mrs Henshaw—’

      ‘It’s the truth. I only need one number.’

      Now, she realised, he could guess at the emptiness of her life, with no need for a ‘privileged’ number because there was nobody to give it to. But all he said was, ‘You might have told me that before I gave you mine.’

      ‘Then you wouldn’t have given it to me. But if you object, here—take it back.’

      She held out the paper but he shook his head.

      ‘No point. You could have memorised it by now. Very clever, Mrs Henshaw. I can see I shall have to be careful.’

      ‘If you’re having doubts you can always refuse to employ me.’

      His eyes met hers and she drew a sharp breath, for there was a gleam in their depths that she hadn’t seen before—not for many years. It teased and enticed, challenged, lured her on to danger.

      ‘I’m not going to accept that offer,’ he said softly.

      She nodded, but before she could speak he added significantly, ‘And you know I’m not.’

      It could have been no more than courtesy but there was a new note in his voice, an odd note, that made her tense. She was at a crossroads. If she admitted that she did actually know what he meant, the road ahead was a wilderness of confusion.

      Ignore the challenge, said the warning voice in her head. Escape while you can.

      ‘How could I know that?’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know you.’

      ‘I think we both know—all that we need to know. The decision has been taken.’

      She wanted to cry out. He seemed to be saying that he really had recognised her, that the two of them still lived in a world that excluded the rest of the universe and only they understood the language they spoke.

      But no! She wouldn’t let herself believe it. She must not believe it, lest she go crazy.

      Crazier than she’d been for the last ten years? Or was she already beyond hope? She drew a deep breath.

      But then, while she was still spinning, he returned to earth with devastating suddenness.

      ‘Now that we’ve settled that, tell me how you got here last night,’ he said.

      His voice sounded normal again. They were back to practical matters.

      ‘In a taxi,’ she said.

      ‘I’m glad. It’s better if you don’t drive for a while after what happened.’

      ‘My head’s fine. It was only a tiny bump. But I’ll take a taxi to the office.’

      ‘Good. I’ll call you later. Now I must go. I have an appointment with the bank. We’ll meet tomorrow.’

      He was gone.

      At the office Mr Smith greeted her news with pleasure. When she’d cleared her desk he took her for a final lunch. Over the wine he became expansive.

      ‘It can be a good job as long as you know to be careful. Men like him resemble lions hovering for the kill. Just be sure you’re not the prey. Remember that however well he seems to treat you now, all he cares about is making the best use of you. When your usefulness is over you’ll be out on your ear. So get what you can out of him before he dumps you.’

      ‘Perhaps he won’t,’ she said, trying to speak lightly.

      ‘He always does. People serve their purpose, then they’re out in the cold. He’s known for it.’

      ‘Perhaps there’s a reason,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe someone deserted him.’

      ‘Don’t make me laugh! Dump him? Nobody would dare.’

      ‘Not now perhaps, but in the past, maybe when he was vulnerable—’

      Mr Smith’s response was a guffaw. ‘Him? Vulnerable?

      Never. Amos Falcon’s son was born fully formed and the image of his father. Hard. Armoured. Unfeeling. Oh, it’s not how he comes across at first. He’s good with the French fantasy lover stuff. Or so I’ve heard from some lady friends who were taken in when they should have known better. But don’t believe it. It’s all on the outside. Inside—nothing!’

      ‘Thanks for the lunch,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I must be going.’

      ‘Yes, you belong to him now, don’t you?’

      ‘My time belongs to him,’ she corrected. ‘Only my time.’

      She fled, desperate to get away from the picture he showed her of Marcel—a man damaged beyond hope. Hearing him condemned so glibly made her want to scream.

       You don’t know him, don’t know what he suffered. I knew him when he was generous and loving, with a heart that overflowed, to me at least. He was young and defenceless then, whatever you think.

      Only a few hours ago her anger had been directed at Marcel, but now she knew a surge of protective fury that made her want to stand between him and the world. What did any of them understand when nobody knew him as she did?

      She checked that her cellphone was switched on and waited for his call. It didn’t come. She tried not to feel disappointed,