Mistress Against Her Will. Lee Wilkinson

      ‘And don’t breathe a word about me. Lorenson would soon be on his guard if he picked up any suggestion that we know each other.’ His gaze held a warning and Gail looked away as he continued, ‘When the interview’s over and you’re well away from Lorenson’s offices, you can give me a quick call and let me know for sure if you’ve got the job.’

      Gail hesitated, still uncertain and unsure. ‘But suppose one of his staff is doing the interviewing and is just compiling a short-list?’

      ‘According to Mrs Rogers, Lorenson doesn’t work that way. The people he wants on his own staff he always interviews personally, and usually he makes an on-the-spot decision.’

      Gail’s heart sank. She had held on to the faint hope that it might be one of his minions she would have to see, and that said minion would prefer some other candidate, thus giving her a let-out. But it seemed it wasn’t to be.

      Urgently in need of reassurance, she asked, ‘When shall I see you? Lynne will be out tonight if you want to come round for a meal.’

      ‘Once Lorenson knows where you live, it might not be safe.’

      Trying to keep the tell-tale tremor out of her voice, she suggested, ‘Well, couldn’t we meet in the park, or at a restaurant, or something?’

      But, instead of softening, those eyes, blue as summer skies, looked at her dismissively. ‘It’s too big a risk. We can’t afford to jeopardise our chances by possibly being seen together.

      ‘After you’ve let me know the score it would be better if we don’t have any contact until you’ve something to report.’

      ‘Oh,’ she said blankly.

      ‘When you have, you’d better give me a ring at the office and we’ll meet up somewhere.’

      He leaned over and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. ‘Now don’t forget how much this means to me. Good luck.’

      Feeling slightly sick, her stomach full of butterflies, Gail unfastened her seat belt, opened the door and got out.

      Already the air was warm and the summer sunshine bright, glancing off the bodywork of passing cars and gleaming on pavements still damp from the early morning shower.

      As the Jaguar drew away, she lifted her hand but, a slight frown on his good-looking face, Paul was staring straight ahead.

      Opening her bag, she took out the pair of cheap low-strength reading glasses she’d bought in the local chemist and put them on.

      Then bracing herself, she walked the short distance to the Clairmont Building, with its handsome Georgian façade, and through the imposing main entrance.

      The clock above the reception desk showed it was ten minutes to eight, so she was in good time.

      As, her heart beating fast and her legs feeling oddly shaky, she started to cross the marble-floored lobby, she caught sight of herself reflected in one of the long gilt-framed mirrors.

      Wearing a smart charcoal-grey suit and an off-white blouse, her small heart-shaped face outwardly calm, her dark hair in a smooth coil, she looked every inch the cool, efficient businesswoman.

      No one would have guessed at her inner turmoil as she approached the desk and gave her name to the pretty blonde receptionist.

      ‘You’ll find the office complex on the second floor, Miss North. If you would like to go straight up, Mrs Bancroft, Mr Lorenson’s secretary, will be waiting for you.’

      When Gail stepped out of the lift on the second floor she was greeted by an attractive middle-aged woman with bobbed iron-grey hair.

      ‘I’m Claire Bancroft. If you’d like to follow me, Miss North…’

      As Mrs Bancroft led the way along the carpeted corridor to another lift, she remarked, ‘Mr Lorenson is in his apartment this morning. He likes to keep the interviews he conducts informal.’

      Entering a four digit code into a small panel, she added, ‘This is his private lift.’

      The lift took them up to the top floor, where they emerged into a quietly luxurious hallway. Opening the nearest door, Mrs Bancroft said, ‘Please come in, Miss North…’

      Gail found herself ushered into a large sunny room with an off-white and mint-green decor and an ornate plaster ceiling. To the left, a door into a neighbouring room stood slightly ajar.

      Between two sets of windows was a desk with an impressive array of the latest electronic equipment and a black leather chair.

      Apart from the businesslike desk, the room was furnished as a lounge.

      ‘Perhaps you’d like to take a seat?’ Mrs Bancroft suggested with a friendly smile. ‘Mr Lorenson knows you’re here. He’ll be with you in a minute or so.’

      When the other woman had gone, too nervous to sit and cravenly grateful for even this short breathing space, Gail looked around curiously.

      Along with some lovely antique furniture, there were a couple of comfortable-looking couches, several soft off-white leather armchairs and a large round coffee table.

      A thick-pile smoke-grey carpet covered the floor and on either side of a beautiful Adam fireplace, which was filled with fresh flowers, there were recessed bookcases, their shelves overflowing.

      Considering how very strongly she had felt about Zane Lorenson, aside from his appearance, she had known hardly anything about the man himself, what he was really like, what his tastes were.

      This appeared to be the room of a man with eclectic tastes, a man who preferred his surroundings to be both simple and elegant.

      On the walls several stark and dramatic snow scenes by Jonathan Cass rubbed shoulders with the vibrant colour and slumberous warmth of Tuscan landscapes by Marco Abruzzi.

      Frowning a little, she studied them. With such diverse techniques and subject matter, they shouldn’t have been hung together. But somehow the contrast worked, highlighting them both.

      It seemed that Zane Lorenson was a man who knew precisely what he wanted and wasn’t afraid to try the less obvious.

      Her mother had always said that one could get a good idea of a person’s character from what kind of books they read so, taking a deep breath, Gail moved closer to the bookcases and looked at their contents.

      Classics and poetry, travel and adventure, mysteries, biographies, autobiographies, the best popular paperback fiction and Booker Prize winners jostled for space.

      She had picked up a copy of a recent Booker Prize winner when, glancing up, she met a pair of brilliant dark eyes.

      He was leaning negligently against the door jamb, his tough, good-looking face shrewd, calculating, an arrogant tilt to his dark head.

      Wearing a smart light-weight suit, a crisp shirt and tie and handmade shoes, he looked every inch the billionaire businessman. He also looked fit and virile and dangerous.

      Though she had braced herself to see him again, the shock hit her like a blow over the heart and in that instant her heartbeat and her breathing, the very blood flowing through her veins, seemed to stop.

      She had remembered how he looked—of course she had, his face had haunted her for years—and, apart from an added maturity, he looked much the same now as he had then.

      But in the intervening years she had almost forgotten just what a powerful impact his physical presence had on her.

      While she stood rooted to the spot, endeavouring to pull herself together, he continued to stand and study her in unnerving silence.

      It seemed an age, but could only have been seconds, before she released the breath she was holding and her heart began to beat again in slow, heavy thuds.

      How long had he been standing there quietly watching her while she’d nosed amongst his personal belongings?

      She