The Parisian Playboy. HELEN BROOKS

was going to come at her again and she prepared herself, her blue eyes flashing and her slim, petite body held stiff and tense.

      ‘What the hell is happening here?’

      The voice from the doorway brought Jeff swinging round and Holly’s startled eyes focusing on the tall, dark figure standing in the aperture. She knew instantly who he was, even if the heavy French accent hadn’t proclaimed it. She had heard so much from the other girls about the unique owner of Querruel International she could have described him down to the last eyelash, even though she’d never seen the ruggedly handsome Frenchman in person.

      Jacques Querruel. Thirty-two years of age; unattached but with a string of mistresses and affairs that made him the favourite of society magazines and the tabloids, alike; the ultimate playboy except in Jacques Querruel’s case he worked hard as well as playing hard. A self-made millionaire who had risen from the depths of squalor in a Paris slum to become a wealthy and successful industrialist, his original furniture company in Paris now having a string of subsidiaries in France as well as the United States and England.

      And he played life by his own rules, as his present ensemble proclaimed. According to office gossip he owned several flashy cars, as one would expect of a young French millionaire, but his favourite transport when he visited England was his Harley-Davidson.

      ‘Mind-blowing piece of equipment,’ one of the young lads in the accounts department had told Holly dreamily a couple of weeks ago. ‘A Road King in monochrome black ice. You could really reel in the big miles on that beauty.’

      ‘You ought to see Mr Querruel in his black leathers.’ This had been from one of the females at the lunch table who clearly didn’t want to waste time talking about a machine when it could be used discussing the rider. ‘Everything stops when he walks in, I tell you. There’s not a woman here who doesn’t go weak at the knees. We’re talking pure dynamite, Holly.’

      And now she was seeing the pure dynamite for herself, Holly thought a trifle hysterically. And it was dangerous stuff all right. But then her attention was snapped away from the big black figure in the doorway and back to Jeff, when he said quickly, ‘Mr Querruel, I’m sorry you had to be a party to this, sir. It’s inexcusable, I know. I was reprimanding Miss Stanton on the inferior quality of some work she did for me and she reacted badly. I’m afraid I lost my temper when she hit me.’

      ‘You liar!’ Holly was amazed at his duplicity. ‘How dare you—?’

      ‘That’s enough.’ As her voice rose Jacques Querruel cut into her protest, his voice quiet but razor-sharp. ‘We will discuss this in Mr Roberts’s office, please. You will both accompany me there now.’

      ‘Now, just hang on a minute!’ Holly had thrown caution to the wind, she was so mad. She knew what would happen when Mr Roberts Senior got involved in this—she’d be out on her ear quicker than you could say Harley-Davidson. ‘He’s lying. There was no work—’

      ‘Have I not made myself clear?’ The French accent was stronger than ever. ‘We will discuss this matter in the privacy of Mr Roberts’s office, Miss Stanton. I have already been informed that Mr Roberts is not expected back from a prior appointment for another hour, so we will not be interrupted.’

      Had he guessed the reason for her objection? Holly stared into narrowed amber eyes that had all the softness of that solid fossilised resin, and found she couldn’t drag herself away from the translucent gaze. They were unnerving, those eyes. Mesmerising and beautiful but cold, like the predatory surveillance of a wolf or one of the big cats.

      And then she mentally shook herself, angry with the fanciful description. What on earth was the matter with her? she asked herself silently as she followed the two men through into Margaret’s office, and then beyond into Mr Roberts Senior’s large and opulent domain.

      She just had time to notice Margaret standing against her desk, looking aghast, which implied the managing director’s secretary had heard something of the events which had transpired in her coffee break, but then the door was firmly shut and she was alone with Jacques Querruel and a blustering Jeff Roberts. ‘Really, Mr Querruel, there is no need for you to concern yourself with this unfortunate matter,’ he was saying with ingratiating and sickening servility. ‘You’ve obviously got more important things to do and—’

      ‘On the contrary, Jeff.’ It was cool, very cool, and as Jacques Querruel indicated for them both to be seated with an authoritative wave of his hand Jeff said nothing more.

      Holly had expected the Frenchman to seat himself behind the massive oak desk which dominated the room, but instead he perched easily on the edge of it, the piercing eyes surveying her critically.

      She forced herself not to fiddle with her hair or make any other nervous movement, but it was hard. Especially in the circumstances and with Jeff sitting a foot or so away. But there was absolutely no way she was going to give any ground over this. She raised her small chin at the thought, her eyes stormy.

      ‘So…’ Jacques’s compelling gaze moved from her flushed face to Jeff’s sulky one, and the amber eyes took full note of the unmistakable handprint etched on the other man’s plump cheek. ‘I think there is a problem, yes?’

      ‘Nothing I can’t handle, Mr Querruel—’

      ‘Yes, there darn well is!’ It was Holly’s turn to cut across Jeff’s voice and she did it vehemently. ‘I have asked Mr Roberts to keep his hands to himself on several occasions and today was the last straw. The man’s a pervert and I refuse to be mauled by him one more time.’

      Dark eyebrows lifted and the carved lips twitched a little before Jacques said, ‘Do not beat about the bush, Miss Stanton. Say what you feel.’

      So he thought this was funny, did he? The flare of furious resentment in Holly’s eyes turned the blue purple as she glared at the illustrious head of Querruel International, and in that moment she didn’t care a jot who he was. She stood to her feet, her voice shaking with rage as she said, ‘Thank you, Mr Querruel. That’s exactly what I intend to do. Your managing director’s son is a liar as well as a lech. There is nothing wrong with my work and far from reprimanding me he had taken his molesting of recent weeks to a new high. That was why I slapped his face and he was lucky to get off so lightly.’

      ‘This I can see.’ It was a quiet murmur.

      It wasn’t the moment to think that he had the sexiest voice she had ever heard, richly seductive in spite of the disparagement, Holly thought with a strong burst of self-disgust.

      ‘That’s all utter rubbish.’ Jeff decided he’d been out of the conversation long enough and he glared up at her, spite prevalent in his voice as he said, ‘The actual fact of the matter is that Miss Stanton is not up to the job for which she was employed but I felt sorry for her. I’ve given her endless chances over the last weeks and realised too late she had misconstrued my kindness as personal interest in her. When I had to make it clear I did not appreciate her flirting with me she suddenly went crazy. A woman scorned and all that.’

      Jacques Querruel’s steady gaze moved over the fat, greasy-haired individual sitting in front of him before returning to the lovely young woman standing in front of the desk. She had hair the colour of dark, rich chocolate, smoothly groomed into a shoulder-length bob, eyes as blue as cornflowers and the sort of cheekbones many a model would have killed for. And she was mad. Boy, was she mad. It was as likely she’d made up to the slug in the chair as the pope marrying. He smiled. ‘Do I take it you refute Mr Roberts’s explanation?’ he asked silkily.

      Her nostrils flared. ‘Darn right I do.’ He was aggressively good-looking, hard and chiselled with no sign of softness about him at all. Funny, but from the other woman’s gossip she’d pictured him as more pretty-boy handsome than anything, especially when they’d gone on about the tan and the jet-black hair and wickedly thick eyelashes. He had got all those things, and the eyelashes were gorgeous enough to be utterly wasted on a man, but there was nothing remotely boyish about Jacques Querruel. In fact she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he had been born six feet two and radiating power and authority. He