Taming the Rebel Tycoon. Ally Blake

pulse rate quickening, she found herself wondering who he could be.

      As she drew nearer, their eyes met.

      Some glances were like collisions. The impact of those dark eyes stopped her in her tracks and made her heart start to throw itself against her ribs.

      She was still standing rooted to the spot, staring at him as though mesmerized, when the bottom of the wet paper bag gave way, allowing her lunch to fall through.

      The roll, though soggy, was fairly easy to pick up, but the plastic yogurt carton had split and its contents were oozing out.

      Making use of one of the paper napkins that had been included, she managed to scoop up the mess and deposit the remains of her lunch in the nearest litter bin.

      As she wiped her hands on the remaining napkin, her gaze was drawn once more to where the dark-haired stranger had been standing.

      With a strange sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, as though she had dropped too fast in an express lift, she found herself staring at the now empty space.

      He had vanished.

      She was certain he hadn’t passed her and she had neither seen nor heard a car start, which meant he must have gone inside.

      So who was he?

      She knew all the admin and general office staff by sight and this man didn’t belong to either. Nor, she was quite sure, was he one of the warehouse staff. Apart from an unmistakable air of assurance and authority, he had been far too well-dressed to be doing manual work.

      However, to have been here at all, he must have some connection with Cartel Wines.

      Perhaps he was a visitor.

      But visitors always used the visitors’ car park and the main entrance. They didn’t come in the back way and go through the warehouse, as he must have done…

      A trickle of icy-cold water ran down the back of her neck, making her shiver. Belatedly aware that she was standing like a fool getting saturated, she hurried into the building.

      As she walked through the warehouse she glanced about her. But there was no sign of him amongst the men at work and she knew she couldn’t mistake him.

      When she reached the top of the stairs she found that her office door was a little ajar and realised that in her haste to beat the rush she couldn’t have latched it properly.

      While she fetched a towel from the small adjoining cloakroom to pat dry her hair and face, her thoughts winged their way back to the dark-haired stranger like homing pigeons.

      In spite of the fact that she had seen him only briefly, his height and the width of his shoulders, the image of his lean, attractive face was clear in her mind. And, though she had tried her hardest to dismiss it, it had haunted her for the rest of the afternoon, displacing any thoughts of hunger.

      Now, gazing through the window, her blue-violet eyes abstracted, she was still wondering about him…Who was he? Why had he been here? If he had been a visitor, would she see him again…?

      But she must stop this fruitless speculation, she told herself sternly, and concentrate on practicalities. At almost five o’clock on a wet Friday afternoon, with darkness hovering in the wings, she still hadn’t decided where to stay.

      But after urging Didi, her stepsister, to accept the place at the prestigious Ramon Bonaventure School of Drama that she had been offered, and promising to pay her fees, it would have to be somewhere not too expensive.

      Still, she would manage somehow. It might mean stringent economies for a couple of years, but to have Didi—who had been christened Valerie, but had always been Val to her friends and acquaintances and Didi to her family—on course again it would be well worth it…

      The bleep of the internal phone cut through her thoughts. Pushing aside the lists of dates and tasting notes that littered her desk, Tina picked up the receiver.

      ‘Miss Dunbar,’ Sandra Langton’s somewhat nasal voice said, ‘Mr De Vere would like to see you before you leave.’

      ‘I’ll be straight down.’

      Wondering at the unexpected summons, she left her office, a slim figure in a smart grey suit, and, still limping slightly, descended the flight of bare stone steps that led down to a wide corridor.

      On the right, the heavy double doors into the warehouse—where the wines for the domestic customers were stored before being put into stout cartons to be despatched nationwide—were closed.

      To the left were the main offices. In the outer office, Sandra Langton, the boss’s middle-aged PA, gave her an odd look before saying, ‘If you’d like to go straight through?’

      Frowning a little, Tina tapped at the door of the inner sanctum and waited for the curt, ‘Come in.’

      She thought, not for the first time, that if Frenchmen were noted for their charm, Maurice De Vere had to be the exception to the rule.

      A short, dry man with grey hair, thin features and an irascible manner, he was due to retire at the end of the month.

      He hadn’t really been a bad boss, she reflected, but, a diehard who disliked modern technology, he had refused to install computers or any equipment that would have made office life easier.

      Added to that, he had always believed in the stick rather than the carrot, so whoever took his place would almost certainly be an improvement.

      Ensconced behind a large, imposing desk, with a motion of one claw-like hand he waved her to a chair.

      She was barely seated when, looking down at a sheaf of papers, he began, ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Miss Dunbar…’

      He hesitated, then, looking at her over his rimless glasses, went on abruptly, ‘When I decided to retire and I sold out to the Matterhorn group, they promised very few changes. On the whole they’ve kept their word. But this afternoon I learnt that John Marsden, the man who’ll be coming in on Monday to start running Cartel Wines, has his own very definite ideas about how the sales campaigns should be staged.’

      ‘I don’t see that as a problem,’ Tina said quietly. ‘The suggestions I’ve already made can easily be changed or adapted to suit—’

      The words died on her lips as De Vere began to shake his head. ‘I’m afraid Marsden’s insisting on bringing in his own team of organisers, which means you’re redundant.’

      As she stared at him in stunned silence, he added, ‘I’m more sorry than I can say. Your work has always been excellent…’

      Coming from a man who had never been known to compliment his staff, that was praise indeed. But what use was it when she was now out of a job?

      ‘Bearing that in mind, I’ll make sure you have very good references.’

      ‘When…?’ Her voice wobbled dangerously and she stopped speaking.

      Looking uncomfortable, he said, ‘As Marsden will need your office for his own team, it would be best if you left immediately. I’ve authorized six months’ salary in lieu of notice, which will be paid directly into your bank…’

      That was very generous. Her contract had only specified one month.

      ‘A reference and any other appropriate papers will be sent to your temporary address in due course.’

      Rising to his feet, he held out his hand. ‘May I wish you well.’

      Her voice under control now, she said, ‘Thank you,’ then shook the cold, papery hand and walked out of the room with her head held high.

      In the outer office, Sandra Langton, who was just putting on her coat, said with obvious sympathy, ‘Tough luck.’

      Then, dropping her voice, ‘I must admit I was surprised by how hard old Sourpuss took it…When will you be leaving?’

      ‘Now…As