‘Jemima Chadwick. I’m Jemima Chadwick. From Harper Recruitment. I’m here to temp for Miles Kingsley and I’m to ask for…’ She pulled her handbag off her shoulder and started to rummage through Visa slips and assorted pieces of screwed-up paper. Somewhere in the depths of her bag was the small notebook in which she’d written all the details Amanda had given her on Friday afternoon.
Somewhere…
‘Saskia Longthorne,’ the receptionist said with authority. ‘She deals with all temporary staff. I’ll let her know you’re here.’
Too late. Just too late Jemima pulled the piece of paper out of her bag and looked down at the words she’d scribbled.
‘She won’t keep you a moment. If you’d like to take a seat?’ There was the faintest trace of a question in her modulated voice, but Jemima had no difficulty in recognising a directive.
She balled the piece of paper up in her hand. ‘Th-thank you.’
Jemima turned and went to sit on one of the seats. They were set in a semi-circular format around an unusual shattered glass coffee table and were the kind of low-slung design that required the same impossible skills as climbing in and out of a sports car. She perched uncomfortably on the edge in a vain effort to stop her skirt from riding up.
This morning she’d been hyped up for the challenge of rebuilding her life. A new beginning—and this temporary job was merely the first step. But now she was actually here…all that beautiful confidence was evaporating. Everything about Kingsley and Bressington made her feel uncomfortable. It was all so far outside of her personal experience it hurt.
But then, that was the idea. Amanda had been adamant that she ought to test her new skills in several temporary vacancies before she looked for a permanent position. She should see what kind of working environment she preferred, push the boundaries a little…As Amanda had said, she might surprise herself with the choices she’d make.
At least, that had been the theory. Sitting in Amanda Symmond’s comfortable Oxford Street offices, it had seemed like a very good idea, but right now she’d give up practically everything to be at home and loading her boys into the back of her Volvo for the school run. Safe. Doing what she knew.
As the minutes slipped by, Jemima sank back into her seat and stopped jumping at the sound of every footstep.
‘Jemima Chadwick? Mrs Chadwick?’
She looked up at the sound of a masculine voice. ‘Yes. That’s me. I…’ She struggled to pull herself out of the deep seat while still clutching her handbag. ‘I’m sorry…I was told to wait here for Saskia Longthorne,’ she managed foolishly, looking up into a pair of intensely blue eyes. ‘She deals with temporary staff and—’
‘Saskia’s been held up, it seems. So, as I’m passing…’ He held out his hand. ‘Thank you for helping us out. We do appreciate it.’
Jemima transferred her handbag to her other shoulder and held out her own hand. ‘You’re w-welcome.’
His hand closed over hers in that double handshake thing. The one that was supposed to convey sincerity, but was usually a sign of exactly the opposite. Tall, dark, handsome…actually, very handsome…and completely aware of it.
Everything about him was clean-cut and expensive. His suit was in a dark grey with a faint blue stripe in the weave and it fitted his muscular body as though it had been made for him. Perhaps it had. Jemima didn’t know how you judged these things.
It was easy to get the measure of the man himself though. Smooth and sharp. Too smooth…and too sharp. It wasn’t by chance he’d selected a tie in a cold ice-blue, a colour that matched his incredibly piercing eyes.
‘I’m Miles Kingsley. You’ll be working with me.’
Jemima felt her stomach drop and disappear. This was absolutely not what she wanted. He was not what she wanted. All the way here on the tube she’d been praying that Miles Kingsley would be a comfortable kind of man and easy to work for.
Amanda had told her that she’d never had a complaint from any temp about working for Miles and, in her mind, she’d pictured him as a controlled, sensible, mature man. Someone not unlike her late father, in fact. Perfect for a woman dipping one very nervous toe back into the job market.
But there was nothing ‘comfortable’ about this man. He was a cocksure thirty-something who clearly felt he was God’s particular gift to the world.
Perhaps Amanda hadn’t understood quite what she was looking for in her first job? Or perhaps Amanda had simply decided to drop her firmly in the deep end and see if she swam. That was the trouble with going to an agency owned and run by the sister of your best friend. People who thought they knew you well were all too apt to make decisions they considered to be in your best interests…without reference to what you actually did want.
‘I’ll take you up to where you’ll be working and by then I’m sure Saskia will be free to take you through our procedures.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Nothing too out of the ordinary, I imagine.’
And then he smiled. A perfect balance of casual warmth and glinting sex appeal. Jemima clutched at her shoulder bag. This was going to be hideous. Miles Kingsley might possibly have hidden neurosis somewhere, but if he did it was deeply buried.
How could any one individual be so completely without…? She searched for the word. So without self-doubt? That was it. He was so darn sure of himself. And all that confidence seemed to suck away what was left of hers. Perhaps she ought to ring Amanda now? Tell her she couldn’t do this job?
Jemima frowned. But how pathetic was that? She’d have to go home and tell her mother she hadn’t been able to do it. How did you do that? How did you tell a woman who’d been a senior civil servant until she’d taken early retirement that you couldn’t manage a simple temp job? Then she’d have to tell the boys…
And she wanted them to be proud of her. Wanted them to see her taking control of her life again. It would be good for them. Everybody said so.
Miles turned and crossed to the reception desk. ‘Felicity, would you hold my calls for the next five minutes or so. And would you let Saskia know I’ve collected Jemima on my way through.’
‘Yes, of course.’
Jemima watched as the receptionist became a pool of hormones at his feet. Assuming she did have hair extensions, one more flick of her lustrous locks and they might fall out. Though, to give him his due, Miles Kingsley didn’t appear to notice. Perhaps because ninety-nine point nine per cent of women he met did the same.
‘This way,’ he said, turning back to her and pointing up the wide glass and steel staircase.
Jemima gave the receptionist a tentative smile and turned to follow him.
‘Have you been temping long?’
‘No. Not really.’ Or, in fact, not at all. Probably better not to mention that, though. Jemima clutched at her shoulder bag and swallowed nervously.
‘To the left here,’ he remarked, pointing down a corridor, ‘you’ll find a staff recreational room—which is a grand way of saying it’s a pleasant place
