‘They’ve been paid. Our account was settled as soon as the money came in from the last job.’
When the grim look on Dave’s thin face failed to lighten, she insisted, ‘I sent the cheque off myself at the beginning of the week.’
‘It bounced,’ he said flatly. ‘I had a nasty email from them this morning, and an even nastier phone call from the bank.’
‘There must be some mistake,’ she protested.
‘There’s no mistake.’
She shook her head unbelievingly. ‘I’m sure there was enough money in our bank account to cover it.’
‘As it happens there wasn’t.’ His brown eyes were hard. ‘When I went to pick up that software package, Burtons insisted on being paid there and then. By the time I’d written them a cheque we were flat broke.’
‘I hadn’t realised things were that bad,’ she said shakily. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘There didn’t seem any point in worrying you.’
‘You should have told me. It was supposed to be my job to pay the bills. If I’d known, rather then send Greenlees a worthless cheque, I would have gone in to see them and asked for more time. It would have saved us the embarrassment of—’
An ugly look on his handsome face, Dave snarled, ‘Rather than standing here arguing, suppose you get out there and do your stuff? And don’t forget that Carrington’s our last hope, so offer him anything he wants, the moon if necessary. We have to get this job if we’re to stay in business.’
The cold certainty in his voice scared her half to death. She knew instinctively that if they lost the business, she might well lose Dave.
Without the promise of a brighter tomorrow, she had nothing to offer him. Or at least nothing exciting enough to hold him. Her future would be as bleak and grey, as empty, as her past.
Somehow she had to persuade Robert Carrington to give them the job.
Taking a deep breath, she glanced in the spotted mirror to check her appearance. What she saw there failed to boost her morale. Dressed in a plain charcoal suit, she looked thin to the point of gauntness, and her heart-shaped face appeared pale and strained in the gloom.
A stray tendril of sable hair had escaped from her otherwise neat chignon. Tucking it into place, she squared her shoulders and, picking up the tray, which she’d set with care, made her way into the office.
A man was standing by the window, his back to the room, looking out on to the street four floors below, where car tyres left a series of snails’ tracks on the dark, wet tarmac.
Tall and well-built, with broad shoulders, his hands hung loosely by his sides, relaxed but alert, and his short, thick, corn-coloured hair curled a little into the nape of his neck.
He turned, without haste, and the first thing she noticed was that his brows and lashes were several shades darker than his hair.
From Dave’s rather derogatory, ‘He seems to like the ladies’, she had imagined him to be in his fifties and handsome in a heavy, florid way; a flashily dressed stereotype, with a practiced charm.
He was nothing of the kind, and somehow his appearance threw her totally. Robert Carrington was quite young, in his early thirties, she guessed, lean and powerful-looking, dressed in a grey business suit with a plain blue tie.
His hard-boned face was tanned and tough, and far from handsome, and if he had any charm he was keeping it well hidden.
As she continued to stand and stare at him, he raised a single brow.
Colour flared in her cheeks and, feeling a complete fool, she put the tray down on the desk with a rattle, and moved to greet him.
At close quarters he seemed to tower over her five feet seven inches, and she guessed he must be well above six foot.
‘Mr Carrington… I’m Eleanor Smith.’
He took her hand in a light, firm grip, and she found herself looking straight into thickly lashed eyes that were green and bronze and speckled with gold. Just like a wolf’s eyes.
Caught and held, she was unable to look away.
‘As in Smith and Benson?’ His voice was deep and attractive, and his question broke the spell.
‘Y-yes,’ she stammered.
Glancing at the tea-tray, he asked with a fine irony, ‘So you’re just standing in for the office girl?’
With an effort, Eleanor pulled herself together and said as coolly as possible, ‘Unfortunately we’re short-staffed at the moment.’
Withdrawing her hand she retreated with what dignity she could muster, while he watched her a shade satirically.
Needing to bolster her confidence, she went to take a seat in the big leather chair behind the desk asking politely, ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Carrington?’
He strolled across the room and took a seat in the small swivel chair opposite.
Chairs made no difference to who was boss, and they both knew it.
Reaching for the teapot, she enquired, ‘Milk and sugar?’
His hard face slightly amused, as though he was playing some game, he answered, ‘A little milk, no sugar.’ Adding unexpectedly, ‘I’m sweet enough.’
You could have fooled me.
Oh Lord, had she said that aloud?
Whether she had or not, he knew, she could read it in his tawny eyes.
Her hands not quite steady, she poured tea into one of the porcelain cups and passed it to him.
As he made to take it, she let go too quickly, and the cup tilted, splashing tea into the saucer and onto his trousers.
While she stared at him, frozen with horror, he calmly put down the cup and, producing a spotless handkerchief, proceeded to mop up the mess.
When Dave had spilled tea into his lap he had jumped to his feet cursing volubly.
This man’s reaction was so unnervingly restrained that she would almost have preferred the cursing.
‘I-I’m terribly sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I hope you’re not scalded?’
‘Nowhere vital,’ he said drily and, balling the handkerchief, tossed it into the waste-paper basket.
Desperate to retrieve the situation, she offered, ‘Let me get you a fresh cup.’
He shook his head. ‘Call me a coward, but I don’t think I’ll risk it.’
Watching the colour rise in her cheeks, he added quizzically, ‘In any case, there’s still almost a full cup. A little tea goes a long way.’
There
