Valentine's Day. Nicola Marsh

      She swivelled in her chair. ‘She’s gone?’

      ‘Yes. Why?’

      ‘I thought you... Didn’t you signal for her to do something for you just now?’

      ‘Yes, I told her to go home. Just because I keep long hours doesn’t mean she has to. She’s got a young family to get home to.’

      So they were...alone? Why on earth did that make her pulse spike? Just once. She’d walked in a secluded wood with him. Being alone in an office wasn’t all that scandalous. Except that it was his office, full of his comfy, oversized furniture and all of a sudden she felt a lot like an outclassed Goldilocks.

      She pushed half out of her chair. ‘I should go.’

      ‘What about the interview? I thought we could go and grab a drink, talk. I can get what I need.’

      For a bright woman, an astonishing amount of nothing filled her head just then. He prowled to the front of his desk and stood by her chair so that she had no choice but to stand and let him shepherd her out of his office.

      ‘The contract...’ she breathed.

      He relieved her of the pages, flicked to the back one and signed it, unread. She pressed her lips together. ‘I should have gifted myself a luxury car in small print.’

      His lips parted, revealing smooth, white, even teeth. ‘Where would you drive a luxury car?’

      ‘You never know. Maybe that’s something I’d like to get experience with—I’ve never driven anything flashier than a Vauxhall.’

      His eyes softened as they alighted on her. Then he reached deep into his trouser pocket and tossed her a bundle of keys. They were still warm from his body heat. Toasty warm. She lifted her eyes to his.

      ‘Never too early to get started. Consider this the first Year of Georgia activity. Driving a luxury car.’

      ‘Not your Jag?’ she gasped.

      ‘Not flashy enough for you?’

      Excitement tangled with dread. ‘What if I scratch it? Or dent it?’ Or drive it into the Thames in her excitement?

      ‘You strike me as a careful driver.’

      He ushered her out of the door, keys still lying limp and unwelcome on her palm. She closed her fingers around them.

      ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘I have outstanding insurance.’

      * * *

      Why would you even care?

      Her words had haunted him ever since she’d uttered them, wide-eyed and confused, when he’d first hit her with his counter-proposal. He did care—very much—on a personal level that even he barely understood, so he’d been shoving the echo of her words way down deep every time it bubbled to the surface.

      Rod and Nigel were already celebrating a ratings coup—even bad PR was good PR in the communications industry—but they’d left the details of what the coming year would entail up to him. As long as Zander got her on board, that was all they cared about. Locking down the contract and making the best use of the publicity windfall.

      This desperate attempt to make sure she got something back for her troubles, that was all him. It just didn’t seem right to screw a girl at the most vulnerable moment of her life.

      And he knew all about that moment. He’d lived it. He knew how it shaped his life.

      It was stupid; he could hardly say that he’d bonded with Georgia the moment he decided to shield her from the prying eyes waiting in Reception. Back in the elevator. But he had. She’d lingered somewhere in the back of his mind from the moment she’d fallen so gratefully on the gesture, and then she’d popped up, unsolicited, when he wasn’t armed.

      In the middle of important meetings.

      Late at night.

      Out on the roads as he thudded one foot in front of the other.

      ‘You seem to be dealing with this quite well,’ he murmured as the waiter topped up both their glasses in his favourite Hampstead bar. ‘Given how you felt about the whole idea last time we met.’

      She took a long, steady breath. ‘It seems I’m the only one of a longish list of people who doesn’t think there’s room for improvement with Georgia Version-Two.’

      ‘Give yourself some credit,’ he murmured, saluting her with his glass before taking a sip. ‘You’re more together than you think.’

      ‘Based on what?’

      ‘My observations.’

      ‘During one quick walk in the woods?’

      ‘I’m paid to pay attention to first impressions.’

      Her eyes narrowed. ‘The elevator?’

      ‘That was a tough few minutes for you and you handled them well.’

      She snorted. ‘Weeping while your back was turned?’

      He smiled. ‘How someone reacts under extreme pressure tells you a lot about them. You were unfailingly courteous even as you were dying inside.’

      Uncertainty flooded her dark eyes. ‘You saw that?’

      ‘But you didn’t let it have you. You stayed in control.’

      ‘You didn’t see what happened to me once I got home,’ she murmured.

      He chuckled. ‘I said you were strong, not a machine.’

      He glanced down to her twisting fingers. Elegant, sensibly manicured hands. He wondered how much else Georgia Stone was sensible about. And what secret things she wasn’t.

      And he shut that curiosity down as fast as it came.

      ‘So. Have you given any thought to the kinds of things you might like to do with the Year of Georgia?’

      ‘No.’

      A lie, for sure. She was human. Who wouldn’t start thinking about how to spend that kind of money?

      ‘Top restaurants? Boats? A-list parties? A taste of how the other half live.’

      She shrugged. ‘I can see how they live. It doesn’t interest me, particularly.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘Because it’s...frivolous.’

      Wow. ‘That’s rather judgemental, don’t you think?’

      She leaned forward. ‘More cars than one person can drive and glamorous houses and wardrobes bulging with unworn clothes?’

      ‘Where’d you get that impression? Television?’ She frowned. ‘I have more cars than I can drive at once. A nice house and enough suits for two weeks without laundering.’ As he knew from experience. ‘But I wouldn’t call myself frivolous. Maybe there’s more to it than you imagine.’

      And he wouldn’t flatter himself that this was about him. This was an older prejudice at work.

      She dropped her eyes briefly. ‘Perhaps. But I’m still not interested enough to try. I like my own world.’

      ‘Science and beautiful gardens? What else?’

      She stared him down. ‘Classical music. Rowing. Old movies. History.’

      He blew out a breath. One part of him sighed at the image of a life filled with those things. Quiet, solitary, gentle things. But the station manager in him baulked. ‘Getting our listeners excited about rowing and classical music is going to be a hard sell.’ Along with the rest.

      She sat up straighter. ‘Not my problem.’

      The first real emotion she’d shown him. Shame it was offence. ‘It kind of is, Georgia. You have a signed contract to honour.