‘Th-thanks,’ she stammered.
‘OK?’ He looked down at her with an eyebrow lifted.
‘Fine,’ she lied. Because she was anything but fine. Out of nowhere she was deeply affected by the feel of his hands on her, deeply affected by his closeness, by how tall he was, how wide his shoulders were, how thick his dark hair was.
Above all, she was stunned by the unfurling sensations that ran through her body under the impact of being so close to Cam Hillier.
She did have the presence of mind to lower her lashes swiftly so he couldn’t read her eyes; she would have been mortified if she’d blushed or given any other indication of her disarray.
He dropped his hands and they walked on.
* * *
Since that day Liz had been particularly careful in her boss’s presence not to trip or do anything that could trigger those sensations again. If Cam Hillier had noticed anything he’d given no sign of it—which, of course, had been helpful. Not so helpful was the tiny voice from somewhere inside her that didn’t appreciate her having the status of a robot where he was concerned.
She’d been shocked when that thought had surfaced. She’d told herself she’d have hated him if he’d acted in any way outside the employer/employee range; she couldn’t believe she was even thinking it!
And finally she’d filed the incident away under the label of ‘momentary aberration’, even though she couldn’t quite command herself to banish it entirely.
But somewhat to her surprise—considering the conflicting emotions she was subject to, considering the fact that although Cam Hillier could be a maddening boss he had a crooked grin that was quite a revelation—she’d managed to cope with the job with her usual savoir-faire for the most part.
He wasn’t smiling now as he looked up from the papers he was studying and raised an eyebrow at her.
‘Miss Pengelly…’ Liz began, and swallowed. Miss Pengelly regrets? In all honesty she couldn’t say that. Miss Pengelly sends her regards? Portia certainly hadn’t done that! ‘Uh—she’s not coming. Miss Pengelly isn’t,’ she added, in case there was any misunderstanding.
Cam Hillier twitched his eyebrows together and swore under his breath. ‘Just like that?’ he shot at Liz.
‘Er—more or less.’ Liz felt her cheeks warm a little.
Cam studied her keenly, then that crooked grin played across his lips and was gone almost before it had begun. ‘I see,’ he said gravely. ‘I’m sorry if you were embarrassed, but the thing is—you’ll have to come in her place.’
‘I certainly will not!’ It was out before Liz could stop herself.
‘Why not? It’s only a cocktail party.’
Liz breathed unevenly. ‘Precisely. Why can’t you go on your own?’
‘I don’t like going to parties on my own. I tend to get mobbed. Portia,’ he said with some exasperation, ‘was brilliant at deflecting unwanted advances. They took one look at her and I guess—’ he shrugged ‘—felt the competition was just too great.’
Liz blinked. ‘Is that all she was…?’ She tailed off and gestured, as if to say strike that…‘Look here, Mr Hillier,’ she said instead, ‘if your diary secretary—the one I’m replacing—were here, you wouldn’t be able to take him along to ward off the…unwanted advances.’
‘True,’ he agreed. ‘But Roger would have been able to find me someone.’
Liz compressed her lips as she thought with distaste, rent-an-escort? ‘Well, I can’t do that either,’ she said tartly, and was struck by another line of defence. ‘And I certainly don’t have Portia Pengelly’s…er…powers of repelling boarders.’
Cam Hillier got up and strolled round his desk. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ He sat on the corner of the desk and studied her—particularly her scraped-back hair and her horn-rimmed glasses. ‘You’re very fair, aren’t you?’ he murmured.
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ Liz enquired tartly, and added as she looked down at her elegant but essentially plain ivory linen dress, ‘Anyway, I’m not dressed for a party!’
He shrugged. ‘You’ll do. In fact, those light blue eyes, that fair hair and the severe outfit give you quite an “Ice Queen” aura. Just as effective in its own way as Portia, I’d say.’
Liz felt herself literally swell with anger, and had to take some deep breaths. But almost immediately her desire to slap his face and walk out was tempered by the thought that she was to be very well paid for the month she’d agreed to work for him. And also tempered by the thought that walking out—not to mention striking him—would place a question mark if not a huge black mark against her record with the employment agency.
He watched and waited attentively.
She muttered something under her breath and said audibly, but coolly, ‘I’ll come. But purely on an employer/employee basis—and I’ll need a few minutes to freshen up.’
What she saw in his eyes then—a wicked little glint of amusement—did not improve her mood, but he stood up and said only, ‘Thank you, Miss Montrose. I appreciate this gesture. I’ll meet you in the foyer in fifteen minutes.’
* * *
Liz washed her face and hands in the staff bathroom—a symphony of mottled black marble and wide, well-lit mirrors. She was still simmering with annoyance, and not only that. She was seriously offended, she discovered—and dying to bite back!
She stared at herself in the mirror. It was on purpose that she dressed formally but plainly for work, but it was not how she always dressed. She happened to have a mother who was a brilliant dressmaker. And the little ivory dress she wore happened to have a silk jacket that went with it. Moreover, she’d picked up the jacket from the dry cleaner’s during her lunch hour, and it had been hanging since then, in its plastic shroud, on the back of her office door. It was now hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
She stared at it, then lifted it down, pulled off the plastic and slipped it on. It had wide shoulders, a round neck, a narrow waist and flared slightly over her hips. She pushed the long fitted sleeves up, as the fashion of the moment dictated, but the impact of it came as much from the material as the style—a shadowy leopard skin pattern in blue, black and silver. It was unusual and stunning.
She smiled faintly at the difference it made to her—a bit like Joseph’s amazing coloured coat, she thought wryly. Because her image now was much closer to that of a cocktail-party-goer rather than an office girl. Well, almost, she temporised, and slipped the jacket off—only to hesitate for another moment as she hung it up carefully.
Then she made up her mind.
She reached up and pulled the pins out of hair. It tumbled to just above her shoulders in a fair, blunt-cut curtain. She took off her glasses and reached into her purse for her contact lenses. She applied them delicately from the pad of her forefinger. Then she got out her little make-up purse and inspected the contents—she only
