Taming the Rebel Tycoon. Ally Blake

all the best.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      Shock setting in, Tina climbed the stairs on legs that felt as wadded and useless as a rag doll’s and, sinking down at her desk, gazed blindly into space.

      She had been with Cartel Wines since she left college two years ago. It was a job she had loved and been good at. Even old Sourpuss—as the staff called De Vere behind his back—had admitted it.

      But that made no difference whatsoever. Due to circumstances, she was now unemployed.

      A kind of futile panic gripped her. Six months’ salary was a buffer, but when the alterations to the house had been completed and she moved back into her flat, her rent would be considerably higher. That, added to Didi’s expenses, meant losing her job couldn’t have come at a worse time.

      Over the past year, life had been a series of downs with scarcely any ups. Now, with this final blow, she seemed to have hit rock-bottom.

      Well, if that was the case, the only way was up.

      Allowing herself no more time for regrets, she rose, squared her shoulders and started to tidy her desk top.

      Only when it was clear, did she suddenly recall the letter she had been going to read. Seeing the handsome dark-haired stranger had put it right out of her mind.

      But where was the letter?

      A quick search through the papers she was taking failed to bring it to light.

      Oh, well, it must be there somewhere. She would look more thoroughly later.

      Finding an almost empty box in the cupboard, she transferred the few remaining items in it to one of the shelves, then, taking her personal belongings from the desk drawers, stacked them in the box.

      The plants she had brought to brighten the somewhat spartan office, she would leave.

      She pulled on her coat, put the strap of her bag over her shoulder, tucked the box under one arm and, switching off the light, closed and locked the door behind her for the last time. There was nothing of value in the office, so she left the key in the lock.

      Just the night security lights were burning, which meant that the rest of the staff had already gone and she was probably the only person still left in this part of the building.

      The main entrance doors at the front would have been locked and bolted some time ago. But her car was in the rear car park, so it was just as quick to go through the warehouse.

      As, without looking back, she began to descend the stairs to the dimly lit passage, a movement she heard rather than saw made her realise that she had been wrong. There was someone else still here.

      At the bottom of the stairs she turned right and in the gloom saw that the double doors at the end of the passageway were swinging slightly.

      Whoever was still here was obviously only a little way in front of her and heading for the car park, as she was.

      When she went through the doors, however, the long warehouse appeared to be deserted.

      More than a little puzzled, she frowned and, her footsteps echoing in the vast space, began to walk past the various bays, with their rows of pallets stacked with crates and boxes of château bottled imported wine.

      Last autumn and winter, on the nights she had worked late, she had walked through the warehouse without a qualm. But tonight, for no good reason, she felt on edge, uneasy.

      The night security lighting was high up in the roof of the building and left areas of deep shadow that suddenly seemed sinister, providing as they did an opportunity for someone to lie in wait…

      She was doing her utmost to ignore the far from comfortable thought, when some sixth sense insisted that she wasn’t alone, that someone was watching her from the shadows.

      The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose and her skin goose-fleshed. Instinctively, she paused and glanced behind her.

      Not a soul was in sight.

      Gritting her teeth, she was about to walk on when in the silence she heard a faint noise like the brush of a furtive footfall.

      The echoing vastness of the warehouse made it impossible to tell where the whisper of sound had come from.

      She was standing rooted to the spot when she realised that it would be George Tomlinson, the night security man.

      Feeling foolish, she took a deep breath and called out, ‘George, is that you?’

      Only the echo of her own voice answered.

      She tried again, louder.

      Still no answer, apart from the mocking echoes.

      It occurred to her that he was probably doing his early evening rounds of the offices, checking that all the lights were out and the doors locked.

      But if it wasn’t George she’d heard, who was it?

      Perhaps someone had slipped in through the small door the employees used and had been heading for the wages office when they had heard her coming and decided to hide?

      Reason soon put paid to that theory. It was Friday night and, as any would-be thief would undoubtedly know, Friday was pay day and the safe would be empty.

      After a moment she recalled that there were a couple of cats who lived on the premises.

      But cats moved silently and they didn’t go through heavy doors and leave them swinging.

      A shiver ran down her spine at the memory.

      Don’t be a fool, she chided herself sharply; it was time she used her common sense rather than letting her imagination run away with her.

      Instead of someone going out ahead of her, it must have been George, coming the opposite way to check the offices, who had left the doors swinging.

      It was a perfectly logical explanation.

      Yet, illogically, she didn’t believe it.

      Well, whether she believed it or not, it was high time she made a move.

      If George had already locked up and completed all his checks—he wouldn’t have worried about a light in her office; he was used to her working late—he could well be ensconced in his little cabin on the far side of the annex, having his tea.

      Which meant that he might not emerge until it was time to do his rounds again and she couldn’t stand here much longer. Her ankle hurt and the box under her arm was getting heavy.

      Glancing round her, she could see no sign of life or movement. Still the feeling of being watched persisted, as though the watcher was patiently waiting to see which way she would jump.

      She pushed the thought away and, summoning all her willpower, decided that as she had already walked more than half the length of the warehouse it made sense to go on, rather than turn back.

      Fighting down a panicky impulse to run, she forced herself to walk steadily towards the huge sliding doors at the end of the hangar-like building.

      Her legs felt curiously stiff and alien, her breathing was rapid and shallow and every muscle in her body had grown tense. Try as she might, she was unable to stop herself from glancing repeatedly over her shoulder.

      When she reached the small staff door to the left of the big main doors and found it securely closed, she breathed a sigh of relief. It boasted a Yale lock so, unless someone had a key, it could only be opened from the inside.

      So much for some thief slipping in and hiding! With an over-active imagination like that, she should be writing stories…

      Her tension relaxing, she let herself out into the dark, wet night and closed the door carefully behind her. Everywhere appeared to be deserted, though a dozen or so cars remained and, outside despatch, a couple of Cartel’s vans were waiting to be loaded.

      The pre-harvest