her again. It turned her blue eyes a strange colour, like slate in the rain, thought Ritchie Calhoun, observing the phenomenon closely. She was endlessly fascinating to watch: never the same two minutes running. Lately he had found himself watching her all the time, and he frowned suddenly, the admission taking him by surprise. He had spent years trying to stop his secretaries getting too interested in him; it would be stupid to fall into the same trap himself.
Yet he was still curious enough to ask, ‘When did his mother die?’ He moved away from her slightly, however; settled himself on the edge of her desk, his lean body at ease, the long legs crossed and his foot swinging.
‘Two years ago.’ Linzi was rather perplexed—why was he so interested in Barty’s family? She had got used to Ritchie Calhoun’s offhand manner at work, his drive and sarcasm. She had never seen him in a mood like this.
‘So he has no family now, except you?’ Ritchie thought aloud slowly, his eyes thoughtful. Was that why she had gone on spoiling her husband, to comfort him, make up for the loss of his mother?
‘No,’ she said, her voice low and husky. ‘He has nobody but me.’
There was something touching about the way she said it. She had only been working for him for six months and they had never exchanged any personal confidences before. He didn’t know why he was asking questions about her private life now; indeed, one part of him protested about the wisdom of showing so much interest in her. Yet he kept on watching her, his grey eyes glimmering, brilliant with curiosity. What was she thinking? What did that look in her eyes mean?
There was something faintly childlike about her, with her long, straight silvery hair and those wide, large-pupilled blue eyes, yet he had begun to sense that there were secrets buried behind her open gaze, and his curiosity, once aroused, wasn’t easy to smother. Most of the women he met were so obvious, such simple equations; they didn’t hold his interest longer than it took for him to find out what lay behind their smooth, glossy façdes.
At first sight he had thought Linzi York was even simpler than usual; she was as calm as milk, as ordinary as bread and butter. It had taken him months to find out his mistake, and even now he didn’t really have a clue what she was hiding, only that she was hiding something.
Ritchie Calhoun was determined to get to the bottom of her mystery, however long it took.
‘How long have you been married?’ he lazily enquired, and she gave him a faintly exasperated glance.
‘Four years, ten months.’
It was Ritchie’s turn to be startled. ‘I’d no idea you’d been married that long!’ She didn’t look old enough. ‘I assumed you had just got married when you joined us.’ He remembered their first interview suddenly, with a faint surprise because he saw her differently now.
It had been a cold November morning. She had been wearing a carnation-pink dress and had glowed with warmth in the grey light, yet she had seemed so young. All the same, she had had impressive office skills, good references from her last boss, who had only parted with her because he was moving his firm to another part of the country, and, most important of all, she was married. Ritchie’s previous secretary had fallen in love with him, without any encouragement, and had made his life impossible with jealous scenes and weeping in the office. He had had to fire her; it made him shudder just to remember that scene and he hadn’t wanted it to happen again, so he had only short-listed married applicants for the job.
He had intended to choose a safe, middle-aged woman, but then Linzi York had walked into the office, and for some inexplicable reason he had found himself offering her the job.
He had rationalised his decision, afterwards, by telling himself that she had a gentle manner, which he knew he would find restful in the office after the hassle he got out on the construction sites; also she was both very capable, and very young—a combination which meant that he would have no difficulty moulding her into the sort of secretary he wanted. And, then, the fact that she was married made her safe to have around.
In fact he admitted to himself now that he really had not known what crazy impulse had made him offer her the job. He still didn’t. He was glad he had, though.
All the same, he had encouraged her to keep a distance between them, and he didn’t know why he was trying to bridge the gulf now. He would probably regret it tomorrow, but at this moment he found himself intensely curious about her; he wanted to know what sort of life she led, away from the office, what sort of man she had married, and whether the two of them were happy. In the six months they had worked together they had rarely talked about anything but work; he had no idea about her private life.
‘What exactly does your husband do?’ he asked, and saw her faint bewilderment, the blue gleam of her perfectly shaped eyes as she stared at him, frowning.
Obviously she was surprised by his sudden interest. He would have to be careful she didn’t get any wrong ideas and start being afraid he fancied her. He certainly didn’t want that.
He lowered his lids but watched her though his black lashes. She was lovely. No question about it. Except that he didn’t go for the delicate, faintly ethereal type. All that long, pale hair, the big blue eyes...he preferred his women sophisticated, experienced, exciting. Yet he kept on watching her, listening to the cool sound of her voice. What would she look like if that dreamy, cool look dissolved? What did she look like when she made love? he wondered, then frowned at his own wandering thoughts.
What on earth was wrong with him, thinking like that? She was married, for one thing, and, for another, the last thing he needed was any more disruption in the office! Stop it! he told himself.
‘He’s a computer programmer with an electronics firm,’ she slowly said. ‘Matthews and Cuthlow.’
He knew them and nodded, quite impressed. ‘Excellent firm. Computer programming is a job that demands a lot of patience, very complicated stuff usually—does he like it? Is he good at it? I suppose he must be or he wouldn’t be doing it.’
‘He’s always been clever with machines of any kind.’ Actually, Barty found the job boring. He had preferred being a mechanic with a garage that specialised in customising luxury cars and motorbikes. Barty had loved that job, it had broken his heart to give it up, but two years ago he had crashed on his own motorbike and been badly injured. For a while it had looked as if he might die. Linzi had terrible memories of that time. She had been down to hell and back in a few short days; she preferred to forget all about what happened during that week of her life.
Barty had had devoted nursing and good doctors, and he had pulled through, after months of operations and illness, because his body was fit and young and healthy. But the man who came back to her had not been the Barty she had loved and married.
That man had gone forever; perhaps she was the only one in the world who remembered that Barty, now that his mother was dead. He had been full of fun, light-hearted and loving, as much her friend as her lover because they had known each other all their lives. They’d had a few friends, but none of them had ever been very close; and since the accident they hadn’t seen much of any of them. They had come round, at first, to visit him, but they were mostly other mechanics, and Barty hadn’t wanted to see them, and he’d made that plain.
Barty could no longer stand the strain of hard physical work; it was out of the question for him to go back to his job at the garage, but an old family friend was a top executive in an electronics firm, and had suggested he take up a job as a computer programmer.
Computers had been his hobby for years; Barty had only
