The Forbidden Innocent. Sharon Kendrick

It suited him. A strong and powerful name. The name of a man who wouldn’t suffer fools gladly. Jack. She tried it again silently in her head until his deep voice broke into her reverie.

      ‘And you’re Ashley?’ he questioned impatiently, wondering if she was going to adopt that dreamy expression every time he spoke to her.

      ‘That’s right. Ashley Jones.’

      ‘And how old are you, Ashley Jones?’

      ‘Eighteen.’

      ‘Eighteen?’ He made a small sound of annoyance underneath his breath. She was even younger than he’d thought. He studied her, acknowledging once again that there was something distracting about dewy-eyed youth—something which drifted temptation in front of a man, even if he had no intention of being tempted.

      It made him think about sex—about soft limbs and trembling flesh. Even if that was the last thing in the world he wanted, or needed. He felt his body tense in unwilling reaction to his vaguely erotic thoughts. ‘I was hoping for someone a little more experienced,’ he said harshly.

      She heard the sudden censure in his voice and all Ashley’s survival instincts came to the fore as she imagined being sacked from her job before she’d even started. She lifted her chin. ‘Oh, I think you’ll find I have plenty of experience for the kind of work you require, Mr Marchant.’ ‘

      Jack.’

      ‘Jack,’ she corrected.

      ‘Someone more middle-aged, then,’ he amended. ‘Who won’t mind locking herself away in this dark corner of the country.’ He frowned. Had she idealised the job and the life she was going to find here? ‘There aren’t any nightclubs around here, you know. It’s pretty quiet—more than quiet, in fact. No bright lights or big pubs crowded with young men.’

      ‘I’m not really into nightclubs and bright lights.’

      There was a pause as Jack’s eyes narrowed. No. With that sensible hairstyle and that rather sensible sweater and skirt, he couldn’t really imagine her gyrating in some sparkly little number on an overcrowded dance-floor. ‘Well, I hope you aren’t going to be bored.’

      She shook her head, wondering if she had imagined some kind of dark warning in his voice. ‘I doubt it. And eighteen isn’t so young—not really.’

      He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Oh, believe me, it is,’ he contradicted shortly, wondering if his own face ever looked as fresh as hers. Had his eyes ever been so clear and bright—so perfect and unlined? A long time ago, maybe. Before the army. Before. His mouth tightened. Before the random lottery of life had given him a oneway ticket to hell. He bent down to throw another log on the fire and it spurted into orange life. ‘Once you’ve passed thirty-five—then someone of your age is pretty much in cradle-country.’

      How old was he? Ashley mused in response. Thirty-five? Forty? His face wasn’t particularly lined, but it had the shadows and furrows of experience etched deep into it. It suddenly occurred to her that if Jack Marchant decided that she wasn’t what he wanted, then that would be that. There would be no job—and no roof over her head, either. And she needed the money—more than she’d ever needed money in her life. For him, her employment probably meant nothing, but for her it meant everything. Desperation made her argue her case—though some instinct told her not to show it.

      ‘It’s not as if there’s something weird about working at this age,’ she defended quietly. ‘Though these days everybody seems to think there is. If you’re old enough to vote, then surely you’re old enough to go out to work.’

      Unexpectedly, he found himself thinking how her face was completely transformed by her smile—and got the feeling she didn’t do it very often. ‘And you’ve worked since when?’

      ‘Since I was sixteen.’

      ‘Doing what?’

      ‘Secretarial work, mainly—although I like to think I’m flexible enough to turn my hand to pretty much most things. My last job was in a boarding school. Before that I was in a hotel.’

      ‘But always live-in jobs?’

      ‘That’s right. I’m hoping to save up for a deposit on my own place one day.’ When she’d cleared the massive debt which hung like a heavy weight dangled over her head.

      ‘And you had no desire to go to university?’

      Ashley sighed, wondering why people always leapt to such predictable conclusions. Of course she’d wanted to go to university—but desire and feasibility were two entirely different things. Moving innumerable times in your formative years and attending some of the worst schools in the country did not tend to provide you with the kind of academic qualifications you needed to go to college.

      ‘It just didn’t work out that way,’ she said quietly.

      He heard the quiet defensiveness in her voice and something made him want to pursue it. ‘No pushy parents?’

      She swallowed. ‘I have no parents.’

      ‘No, I thought not,’ he said softly.

      Ashley stared at him. Was he some sort of mind-reader—or did she just carry an invisible aura about her which proclaimed ‘orphan’? Her lips trembled. ‘H-how?’

      ‘Because there is something oddly self-contained about you,’ he answered cryptically, thinking how innocent she looked when her lips shivered like that. ‘Something which tells me you have been looking after yourself for a long time.’

      ‘You are very perceptive,’ she said slowly, almost to herself, and she saw his eyes narrow.

      ‘I’m a writer,’ he said mockingly. ‘It goes with the territory. We may not be the best people at engaging in social niceties—but our observational skills are highly honed. Which is why I’d also hazard that you’re a city girl?’

      ‘Because I walk in lanes and scare the horses?’

      ‘There’s that of course. And by your pale face, which looks as if it has never seen sunshine,’ he observed, finding his gaze drawn once more to her features. She was no beauty, that was for sure—and yet she had something which set her apart. Was it her eyes, which looked like a paintbox swirl of different greens? Or something about her quietness and watchful air? You didn’t meet very many women with that rare air of containment, not these days. ‘Very pale,’ he finished slowly as an odd kind of lump rose in his throat.

      And once again, Ashley felt a sudden sense of awareness begin to sizzle at her skin as his black eyes captured her in their gaze. The intimate flicker of the firelight seemed to have marooned them in their own private world where none of the usual rules seemed to apply. One where her new boss could study her as if she were beneath a microscope—and she would accept it as perfectly normal. She cleared her throat as she scrabbled round for something to break this oddly hypnotic and mesmerising mood.

      ‘Did…’ she hesitated ‘… did the hospital give you the all-clear?’

      He raised his eyebrows. ‘Why, do you think I have taken leave of my senses? That I’m speaking in a deranged way?’

      ‘Since this is only the second time I’ve met you, it’s far too early for me to make a judgement like that.’

      At this Jack gave a low laugh and leaned further back into the cushions of the chair. So behind that demure, pale face she was capable of sarcasm, was she? Just as it seemed she was capable of answering his questions with an honesty which was as rare as it was disarming. Which would suggest she wasn’t quite as mouselike as her appearance suggested. ‘You’ll have to let me know when you come to a verdict about my sanity,’ he mocked softly.

      Ashley bit back a smile. ‘I don’t actually think that’s in my job specification.’

      ‘Perhaps not.’ He bent to toss another log into the smouldering fire.