The Parisian Playboy. HELEN BROOKS

securing the job at Querruel International would have to do. If nothing else the shoes would give her an extra few inches, which wouldn’t go amiss considering Jacques Querruel had seemed to tower over her in the lift, and her black wrap—the bargain of the year twelve months before, when she’d spied the beautiful Versace wrap in a charity shop for a fraction of its original price—would dress up the whole outfit.

      She peeped out of the window before she went to work with her make-up and the taxi was already back and waiting. No time to put her hair up, then. She contented herself with eyeshadow and mascara, along with a careful application of her lipstick pencil, finishing her toilette with a dab of perfume on her wrists. Silver studs in her ears and a silver bangle on one wrist and she was ready. She stood in front of the mirror, breathing deeply in and out for a moment or two. She had never felt so scared in all her life.

      ‘Look at it this way,’ she said to the wide-eyed, dark-haired girl staring back at her from out of the mirror. ‘You have got nothing to lose and everything to gain from hearing what he has to say. You’d already decided you wouldn’t be able to stay at Querruel International, not working for Margaret anyway. He might, he just might make you an offer you can’t refuse.’

      No, she hadn’t phrased that quite right, Holly thought agitatedly as the mental image of a tall, dark and extremely handsome Frenchman sent the juices flowing. What she’d meant was, she might find she didn’t have to start the dismal rounds of searching out the right kind of job again.

      She would hear him out, weigh up the pros and cons of what he said and then make an informed decision. Simple. No big deal, not really, not unless she made it one. OK, so he was taking her to dinner, but he’d been pretty nonchalant about it. He clearly hadn’t been over-bothered one way or the other. And that was fine. Great. Perfect. The last thing she needed was for him to get any sort of ideas.

      She gathered up her small black purse and the wrap, and squared her slim shoulders as though she was going into battle instead of to dinner. But that was what it felt like…

      Jacques saw her the moment she walked through the doors of Lemaires; he had been watching the entrance intently ever since he had sat down at the secluded little table for two. He rose immediately and raised his hand, and as the waiter guided her over to him he said quietly, ‘Thank you, Claude. And perhaps you would bring one of your delicious champagne cocktails for Miss Stanton?’

      Once she was seated, Holly said a little breathlessly, ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long, Mr Querruel.’

      ‘Not at all,’ Jacques said pleasantly. He had settled back in his seat once she was comfortable, his eyes unreadable and his big body relaxed.

      Holly envied him. She felt as taut as piano wire. Whether her tenseness communicated itself to him she didn’t know, but he took the wind out of her sails completely in the next moment when he leant forward and said quietly, ‘In view of the surroundings I think we could be less formal, don’t you? Loosen up a little—is that the phrase? My name is Jacques and yours is Holly, I understand? An unusual name, even for someone born at the end of December.’

      So he had looked up her file. Holly felt horribly flustered even as she told herself she’d known it all along. Jacques Querruel was the type of man who would want every fact at his fingertips before he talked about a job offer. But there were a hundred and one things one could never learn from the anonymous black print of a personnel file.

      And this was borne out when Jacques continued, ‘Your mother’s choice of name or your father’s?’

      ‘Neither.’ She purposely didn’t elaborate, hoping he would take the hint and accept a change of subject when she continued, ‘It’s very kind of you to buy me dinner, Mr Querruel, but it really wasn’t necessary.’

      The amber eyes moved over her face very slowly before he said, ‘Yes, it was. And the name’s Jacques.’ His gaze intensified, the thick black lashes adding to the piercing quality. ‘And if it was not your parents who gave you your name, then who did?’ he persisted softly.

      ‘The sister in charge of the maternity unit where I was taken after being abandoned.’ She didn’t try to soften the statement. “‘The Holly and the Ivy” was playing on the radio when they brought me in.’

      He didn’t come back with any of the comments she might have expected and had experienced in the past on the rare occasions the circumstances of her birth had become known, but then she should have known he wouldn’t. He was not a flock animal. He merely expelled a silent breath before saying, ‘Tough start. Very tough.’

      She nodded tightly. ‘Yes, it was.’

      ‘Did they find the woman who had given birth to you?’

      She was glad he hadn’t called Angela Stanton her mother, because for a long time now she had understood the biological ability to produce did not make a mother. She nodded again. ‘At the point she gave birth to me she’d already got three children, all by different fathers; she didn’t want a fourth,’ she said evenly. ‘After she was traced she visited me once or twice, I understand, but that’s all. I contacted her when I was twenty-one and we met briefly; she was happy to tell me anything I wanted to know. My father was a married man she’d had a short affair with. She didn’t tell me his name and I didn’t ask. All her other children were put in care at some point and are in various parts of the country. There were two more after me.’

      Her mouth was unyielding and set in a controlled line. Ridiculously he wanted to kiss the warm fullness back. The strength of his feeling shocked him and his mouth was dry when he said, ‘I am truly sorry, Holly.’

      She shrugged, and he realised the gesture went hand in hand with the closed expression on her face. Both were too old for a young woman of twenty-five. ‘It happens,’ she said dismissively. ‘And lots of people suffer worse every day.’

      The waiter arrived with two long fluted glasses filled to the brim with sparkling, effervescent liquid, and Jacques watched her face change as she looked up at the balding, middle-aged man, smiling her thanks. She hadn’t liked talking about herself. She hadn’t liked it at all. And she didn’t like him. He felt his pulse quicken and didn’t know if the feeling coursing through him was desire, pique, excitement or curiosity, or maybe a mixture of them all.

      He took control of himself and the situation, raising his glass and touching hers in a toast as he said lightly, ‘To an excellent meal and a good bottle of wine when it comes.’

      Holly laughed; she couldn’t help it. ‘That’s a little self-indulgent, isn’t it?’ she commented just as lightly.

      ‘Perhaps.’ He smiled at her, a social, easy smile. ‘But it’s to your benefit too.’

      ‘True.’ She considered, her head slightly tilted to one side. ‘All right, then. To the meal and the wine.’

      The cocktail was delicious but she could feel the bubbles going straight to her head, and too late Holly told herself she should have eaten something earlier. She hadn’t had a bite since lunch and even then she had only nibbled at a sandwich, the events of the morning ruining her appetite. She took a firm hold on herself, putting the glass down and fixing the dark, handsome face opposite with what she hoped was an efficient, matter-of-fact expression as she said, ‘You mentioned a job proposition?’ She would have liked to add ‘Mr Querruel’ but he had insisted she call him Jacques earlier, and she couldn’t, she just couldn’t bring herself to do that. Consequently the question just trailed to a finish.

      ‘Later. You need to unwind.’

      Did she? She didn’t think she did. In fact she thought it imperative she didn’t ‘unwind’, as he put it. She needed to have all her wits about her tonight. But he was the big boss and she couldn’t very well argue. She wriggled her bottom nervously; she was out of her depth here. Margaret was right; she shouldn’t have accepted this ridiculous invitation to dinner.

      ‘And stop looking at me as though you are little Red Riding Hood and I am the big bad wolf,’ Jacques said softly, his accent lending a resonance