To Tame a Proud Heart. Cathy Williams

      ‘I didn’t spend my whole life in front of books before joining the army of people out to earn a living,’ he replied, his deep, low voice cutting through the tinny sound of the music.

      ‘You just decided somewhere along the line that fun was something you could do without?’ She cradled her glass in her hands, unwilling to drink another drop because she already felt a bit giddy.

      ‘No, I just decided that this sort of thing was an exercise in stupidity.’

      ‘Which I suppose is another criticism of me?’

      He shrugged. ‘You can suppose anything you like.’

      ‘You don’t really care one way or the other.’ For some reason that stung.

      ‘That’s right.’ He leaned back in his chair and looked at his watch.

      ‘I’ll make sure that I’m at work on time tomorrow,’ Francesca said, abandoning her principles and taking another long gulp of her drink.

      ‘Of course you will,’ he murmured easily, ‘if only to prove that you can burn the candle at both ends and still function.’

      ‘I don’t have to prove anything to you,’ Francesca lied, not meeting his eyes.

      ‘Well, then,’ he said, not bothering to look at her, ‘maybe to yourself.’

      CHAPTER THREE

      ‘I’M LEAVING home.’ Francesca’s father looked at her with anxious consternation, and she knew that it wasn’t because of what she had just announced but the way she had announced it. She knew that her mouth was tight, her words abrupt, her expression hard, but she was just so angry that anything else was quite beyond her.

      How could he?

      ‘I’ve found a flat,’ she carried on, not quite meeting her father’s eyes but not looking away either. ‘It’s small but it’ll do, and I shall move at the weekend. You’re away for a couple of weeks so I won’t get under your feet.’

      ‘What’s the matter?’

      ‘What’s the matter?’ She stood up and walked across the room to the window, then she turned to face him, her hands on her hips. ‘Dad, how could you?’

      Two months, she thought furiously; two months of working for Oliver Kemp and now this. She didn’t quite know how the sudden flare-up had happened. She had got into work the morning before and had known the minute she had clapped eyes on him that he was in a foul temper.

      Whether it had been his mood or a reaction to two months of his stunning indifference to her, which, she had managed to persuade herself, suited her just fine, she didn’t quite know, but she had snapped.

      All she could coherently remember was Oliver leaning across her desk with a filthy expression on his face and telling her that the document which she had typed, which she had spent hours typing, would have to be redone because some of the facts were inaccurate, and that she should have known better. As if, she had thought at the time, she were on some uncanny hotline to Divine Company Information.

      David Bass had dictated the facts. How could she have known that some of them weren’t on target? She had said as much to Oliver.

      ‘Oh, I’ve had a few words with David Bass,’ Oliver had said grimly, and then she had snapped.

      ‘How could I what?’ her father asked now, and she glared at him. The memory of what Oliver had told her was still humiliatingly clear in her head.

      ‘How could you have blackmailed Oliver Kemp into hiring me?’ she wailed, angry with her father, herself, Oliver and the world at large.

      She had spent the last two months working hard, proving herself, foolishly believing that she had got the job on her own merit, and she knew that she would have continued harbouring the illusion if she hadn’t goaded Oliver into revealing the truth.

      Her father was looking uncomfortable, clearing his throat and attempting to placate her, but Francesca was in no mood to forgive.

      ‘I only did it for your own good, my dear,’ he offered.

      ‘You knew his father very well, didn’t you, Dad?’ she said bitterly. ‘This was no passing acquaintance you bumped into accidentally. You grew up with his father! You both went to the same school, except that when you left to go on to a private school to finish your education he left to support a family of nine!’

      ‘He was a very clever man,’ her father murmured ruefully, which to her seemed quite beside the point.

      ‘I don’t care if he was Einstein!’ Francesca shouted, on the point of tears. ‘Oliver said that when his father died you sent them money—money so that Oliver could have the education he deserved. You sent me to him like a mouse to a trap, knowing that he would have no option but to employ me.’

      ‘You went of your own free will,’ her father pointed out, and Francesca ignored him.

      ‘You put him in a position of obligation. I was a debt.’ Her voice sank to a whisper. ‘A debt to be paid off.’

      ‘I knew you could do the job,’ her father said.

      ‘In that case you should have let me prove myself,’ she retorted immediately, and her father reddened.

      ‘My dear—’ he began, and she cut him short with a wave of her hand.

      ‘No,’ she said, gathering herself together. ‘It’s done, but I shall never forgive you for this.’

      ‘You’re making a mountain out of a molehill. If Oliver had thought you incompetent he would have sacked you, debt or no debt.’

      ‘The fact is you shouldn’t have blackmailed him.’ She walked towards the door. ‘Please tell Bridie that I’ll be in over the weekend to get my things together.’ She didn’t want to meet her father’s eye. Her anger was so great that it pushed aside everything else. It consumed her.

      ‘I can’t possibly continue working for you,’ she had told Oliver the day before, shaken and humiliated by his revelation.

      And he had said curtly, ‘Don’t be a complete fool. I won’t accept a resignation from you.’

      ‘Why?’ she had taunted bitterly. ‘Because you’re honour-bound to keep me here?’

      ‘And stop,’ he had said, unwittingly focusing on the one thing guaranteed to make her feel even worse, ‘acting like a child.’

      She felt like a child now, but she couldn’t help herself. Her self-respect had been whipped away and she felt naked and vulnerable, and she certainly wasn’t about to be persuaded by her father to be reasonable.

      She didn’t want to be reasonable. She wanted to fling things about, and before she could do that she left, slamming the door behind her and bringing Bridie rushing down the stairs to see what was wrong.

      Francesca was still fuming the following morning when she got to work, and as soon as Oliver walked in and saw her face he said tightly, impatiently, ‘For God’s sake, Francesca, drop it.’

      ‘Drop what?’ She watched as he took off his jacket, then slowly turned around to face her.

      ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ he said, moving across to her desk and propping himself on it with his hands. ‘If I hadn’t thought that you could do the job I wouldn’t have hired you.’

      ‘Sure,’ Francesca muttered under her breath, and he gripped her chin with his fingers, forcing her to look at him.

      ‘I can’t stand people who feel sorry for themselves,’ he grated, and she met his eyes with an angry glare.

      ‘Since you can’t stand me anyway,’ she said, ‘I don’t think any further criticisms of my character will have any effect.’

      He