his clothes and into her own.
‘You’ve been very kind,’ she began as he accompanied her into the kitchen. ‘I don’t quite honestly know what I would have done if you hadn’t done a circle round and picked me up.’
‘You’re helping me too, remember,’ he said, and, taking out his wallet, he handed her a wad of notes. ‘In view of your past experience, I think it might be as well if you accepted your salary in advance rather than in arrears.’
‘I don’t want…’ she began to protest.
‘Don’t give me a hard time, Mallon. I’ve an idea you’re going to earn every penny—if only by keeping an army of builders supplied with tea and coffee.’ He smiled then, about the second time Mallon had seen him smile. This time it had the strangest effect of killing off all thought of protest. ‘While we’re on the subject of sustenance, fix yourself dinner from anything you fancy in the cupboards. It’s there for your use, so eat heartily.’ His glance slid over her slender figure, her curves obvious even in her baggy outfit. Mallon stilled, striving to hold down a feeling of panic. Then her large, deeply blue and troubled eyes met his steady grey ones, and he was no longer smiling. ‘You have a beautiful face, Mallon, and a superb figure.’ He brought out into the open that which she was panicking about. ‘And you’ve had one hell of a fright today. But, trust me, not every man you meet will be champing at the bit for your body.’
She swallowed hard. This man, while sometimes being curt with her, sharp with her, had also been exceedingly kind. ‘As in—n-not in a million years?’
He laughed then, and suddenly she relaxed and even smiled at him. She knew he had recalled without effort that he had answered ‘Not in a million years’ when she had earlier delayed leaving his car in fear that he too might have wicked intent. ‘Something like that,’ he answered.
‘Then go,’ she bade him, but, remembering he was now virtually her employer, ‘Sir,’ she added.
And he, looking pleased that her spirit seemed to have returned, was unoffended. Handing her his business card, ‘Contact me if you need to,’ he instructed. ‘You’ll be all right on your own?’ he questioned seriously. ‘No fears?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she answered. ‘Actually, I’m suddenly starting to feel better than I have in a long while.’
Harris Quillian stared down at her, studying her. Then, nodding approvingly, he took up his overnight bag and his car keys. ‘I may be down on Friday,’ he said, and was gone.
Her sleep was troubled by dark dreams that night. Mallon awoke a number of times, feeling threatened and insecure, and was awake again at four o’clock, although this time dawn was starting to break. And, with the light, she began to feel a little more secure.
She lay wide awake looking round the high-ceilinged uncurtained room. As well as not having curtains, the room was as yet uncarpeted, but there was a large rug on the floor and, against one wall, a large oak wardrobe.
Mallon could tell that, once the building work was completed, furniture and furnishings installed, Harcourt House would revert to what had once been its former glory. She liked big old houses—she had been brought up in one.
Her eyes clouded over. She didn’t want to dwell on times past, but could not help but think back to her happy childhood, her loving and loved parents and the plans they had made for her future—all of which had turned to dust nine years ago.
She had been thirteen when she and her mother were wondering whether to start dinner without waiting for Mallon’s father. He’d been a consultant surgeon and worked all hours, so meals had often been delayed. ‘We’ll start,’ her mother had just decreed, when there had been a ring at the doorbell. Their caller had been one of his colleagues, come to tell them that Cyrus Braithwaite had been in a car accident.
The hospital had done everything they could to try and save him, but they must have known at the start from the extent of his injuries that they were going to lose him.
Mallon had been totally shattered by her adored father’s death; her mother had been absolutely devastated and completely unable to cope. With the help of medication, her mother had got through day by day, but Mallon could not help but know that Evelyn Braithwaite would have been happier to have died with her husband—that perhaps it was only for her daughter’s sake that she’d struggled on.
Some days had been so bad for her mother that Mallon would not consider going to school and leaving her on her own. The first year after her father’s death had passed with Mallon taking more and more time off school. Her studies had suffered and, having been at the top of her year, her grades had fallen; but she’d had higher priorities.
Her father had been dead two years when her mother had met Ambrose Jenkins. He was the antithesis of Mallon’s father: loud where her father had been quiet, boastful where her father had been modest, work-shy where her father had been industrious. But, at first, he’d seemed able to cheer her mother, and for that Mallon forgave Ambrose Jenkins a lot. She’d found she could not like him, but had tried her hardest to be fair, recognising that because she had thought so much of her father she could not expect any other man to measure up.
So when, within weeks of meeting him, her mother told her that she and Ambrose were going to be married, Mallon had kissed and hugged her mother and pretended to be pleased. Ambrose had had a twenty-seven-year-old son, Lee. Mallon had found him obnoxiously repellent. But, for her mother’s sake, she’d smiled through the wedding and accepted that Ambrose would be moving into their home.
What Mallon had not expected was that Lee Jenkins would move in too. By then she was a blossoming fifteen-year-old, but, instead of being proud of her beautiful blonde hair and curvy burgeoning figure, Mallon had been more prone to hide her shape under baggy sweaters and to scrape her hair back in a rubber band. For never a day had seemed to go by without her stepbrother making a pass at her.
To say anything about it to her mother, after the most unhappy time she had endured, was something Mallon had found she just could not do. Though she had to admit that she’d come close that day Lee Jenkins came into her room just as she had finished dressing.
‘Get out!’ she screamed at him—a minute earlier and he would have caught her minus her blouse!
‘Don’t be like that,’ he said in what he thought was his sexy voice, but which she found revolting, and, instead of leaving her room, he came further into it and, grabbing a hold of her, tried to kiss her.
She bit him—his language was colourful, but she cared not. Once he let her go and she was free of him, she wasn’t hanging about.
She was badly shaken, and wanted to confide in her mother. But, somehow, protective of her still, Mallon could not tell her. Instead she took to propping a chair under the knob of her bedroom door at all times whenever she was in there on her own.
Then, horror of horrors, her mother had been married for only a year when her stepfather cast his lascivious glance on Mallon. At first she couldn’t believe what her eyes and instincts were telling her. That was until the day he cornered her in the drawing room and, his eyes on her breasts, remarked, ‘Little Mallon, you’re not so little any more, I see.’ Coming closer, his slack mouth all but slobbering, he demanded, ‘Got a kiss for your stepdaddy?’
She was revolted, and told him truthfully, ‘I’m going to be sick!’
She was sick, and later sat on her bed and cried, because she knew now, more than
