No Need For Love. Sandra Marton

brows and said all right, he’d give her a try...

      A sudden whoop of laughter echoed down the corridor, dying as a wave of music swept over it. Hannah glanced at her watch. Five o’clock, on the nose. Quitting time at the estimable law firm of Longworth, Hart, Holtz and MacLean, and Betty’s party had started. Well, she wasn’t going to get there for quite a while, if at all. Gibbs vs. Gibbs was driving her crazy. From what she’d read so far, Jack Gibbs was a sneaky, two-timing rat, but his pathetic wife didn’t want to believe it.

      Why were women so damned stupid? Why were men such bastards? Why... ?

      The door banged open. ‘Time to get a move on,’ Sally called.

      Hannah shook her head without looking up. ‘I’m nowhere near finished.’

      ‘Oh, come on. It’s after five.’

      ‘Exactly. Mr MacLean will be back soon. And he’ll expect me to have this brief organised.’

      Sally made a face. ‘Boy, I’d love to tell him what he can do with his expectations!’

      Hannah laughed. ‘Wish Betty the best for me, will you?’

      ‘You can do that for yourself. I’ll be back in half an hour to pick up this little number.’ Sally patted the slinky folds spilling from the gold foil box. ‘And when I do, I’m taking you with me!’

      Hannah didn’t bother protesting as the door slammed shut. She was too busy peering at the screen. For a while, there was no sound in the office except for the soft click of her keyboard and the occasional scratch of her pencil against her notepad. After a long while, she sat back, shoved her glasses atop her head, and rose from her chair.

      ‘Time for a break,’ she murmured. She walked the width of her small office, poured herself a cup of coffee, then strolled back again. The black lace nightgown caught her eye; she stopped and caught it up lightly in her hand, shaking her head as she examined the gossamer straps and sheer bodice.

      Maybe Betty would be one of the lucky ones and whatever she was dreaming today would last. Maybe her husband would be a man, not the boy Hannah had unwittingly married, who’d been so intent on his own desires that he’d slept with another woman in their bed. She could still remember the pain of coming home early from work and finding them there, a frill of black lace very like this one on the carpet.

      The door swung open and banged against the wall. Sally, Hannah thought, and she swung around blindly and held out the damned nightgown.

      ‘Take this, will you please?’ she demanded. ‘I don’t want it cluttering up my...’

      The burst of angry words caught in her throat. She gave a start as she looked into the grey eyes of her employer.

      ‘For me, Miss Lewis?’ Grant MacLean took the gown from her suddenly nerveless fingers. It slithered through his hands like a snake. ‘Charming,’ he said, his voice fairly purring. A little smile angled across his mouth. ‘But not quite my size.’

      Colour raced into Hannah’s cheeks. ‘I—I didn’t know it was you, Mr MacLean.’

      ‘No. I can see that.’ MacLean’s gaze drifted impersonally over her, from her neatly clasped chestnut hair to the hazel eyes behind the oversized glasses, then down her grey worsted blazer to the hem of her matching calf-length skirt before returning to her face. He held out the gown as that tight smile inched across his lips again. ‘A gift from an admirer, perhaps?’

      This time, she felt her face blaze crimson. ‘No! Of course not. How could you think... ?’ She fell silent. He was having fun at her expense, damn him! ‘It’s a gift,’ she said stiffly, snatching the gown from his hands. ‘For Betty, in the typing pool. She’s getting married Sunday, and——’

      MacLean’s smile vanished. ‘Spare me the details,’ he said as he shouldered his way past her. ‘Just get your notes on the Gibbs case and come into my office—if you can spare the time, of course.’

      Hannah glared at his retreating back. ‘Yes, sir.’ She gave the nightgown one last, condemning glance, then stuffed it into the box and slammed on the lid. Quickly, she stalked to the door and flung it open. A girl was coming towards her, hurrying towards the employees’ lunch room where the sounds of revelry had grown louder. ‘Here,’ Hannah said, shoving the box into the girl’s arms, ‘take this.’

      ‘What is it?’

      ‘It’s Betty’s gi——’

      ‘Miss Lewis!’ The voice roared out from behind her and Hannah flinched.

      ‘Just take it,’ she hissed, and then she shut the door, snatched up her pad and pencil, and hurried into Grant MacLean’s private office.

      It was a large room but it was not furnished with the profusion of Oriental carpets and priceless antiques that filled the other partners’ quarters. A pair of black leather couches faced a low glass table to her right; to her left, a matching cabinet hid stereophonic equipment and a built-in bar. Ahead, centred against a backdrop of darkened glass, stood a rectangle of burled walnut that served as MacLean’s desk, flanked by a pair of leather chairs that complemented the one behind the desk.

      It was a room almost spartan in its simplicity, yet it had an air of power and authority almost as tangible as the man it housed. He was standing at the window, his back to Hannah, staring out at the Golden Gate Bridge resplendent in the last rays of the afternoon sun, but one glance at his rigid spine and stiffly held shoulders suggested that he was not admiring the scenery.

      Hannah ran her tongue over her lips as she moved towards him. ‘Mr MacLean?’ She waited for a few seconds. ‘Sir? You asked me to bring you my notes on Gibbs.’

      ‘Are you sure you have the time to spare, Miss Lewis?’ He swung around to face her. ‘Perhaps you’d prefer to attend that fashion show down the hall.’

      Her chin lifted. ‘That’s not necessary, sir, thank you.’

      MacLean looked at her in silence, then jerked his head towards the door.

      ‘Close that,’ he said sharply. ‘My skull already feels as if there’s somebody inside hammering to get out without having to listen to the noise coming from that—that female victory party!’ Hannah’s brows lifted, but she said nothing, only turned and did as he’d asked. Then she marched to his desk, her sensible heels silent against the tightly knit cream Berber carpet. MacLean motioned her to a chair as he loosened his tie and sank into the one behind the desk. ‘That stupid woman,’ he muttered. ‘She wouldn’t agree to the settlement.’

      Hannah was puzzled, but only for a moment. ‘Mrs Gibbs?’

      ‘Yes.’ He leaned forward and folded his hands loosely on the desk top. ‘We offered one million five, but she won’t take it.’ He shook his head, the harshly handsome face twisted into lines of disbelief. “‘I love him,” she keeps saying, as if that were about to change anything. Can you imagine? Of course,’ he went on in a smug, certain voice, ‘it’s all crap.’

      He looked at Hannah. It was clear he was waiting for her to say something.

      ‘Is it?’

      ‘Sure. She’s just setting him up for the kill. She figures on getting more money out of him. Hell, they were married, what? Five years? What’s that worth in dollars?’

      Hannah frowned. ‘I’m not sure you’re right, sir. After reading through the file, I——’

      ‘Well, Gibbs will pay. What choice has he got? But he’ll be twice as smart next time. He won’t let himself get led into marriage so easily.’

      ‘Mrs Gibbs manoeuvred him into marrying her?’

      That smug look came over his face again. ‘I keep forgetting that you’re single, Miss Lewis. You’ve no way of knowing that marriage is never a man’s idea.’

      Hannah’s brows lifted. ‘Is that right?’ she said politely.