thought weakly as he came to a halt just in front of her, his six-foot frame seeming to dwarf her slim, petite five feet four.
‘Yes?’ She raised her eyes to meet the arctic blue of his, her face straight. He had been rude, incredibly, unforgivably rude, and if he thought she was going to crawl now he’d soon find out differently.
‘What the hell do you mean by bursting into my office uninvited?’ he asked cuttingly, his eyes moving to her ash-blonde hair, secured in a neat and demure French plait at the back of her head, with more than a touch of resigned contempt in the blue gaze.
‘Blonde-haired bombshell’. The words spoken with such raw harshness came back to her. Well, she had blonde hair, that much was for sure, and she’d die before she apologised for the fact, especially to a male chauvinist pig like this one.
‘Don’t be so ridiculous, Mr Strade,’ she said coolly, blessing the impulse that had made her wear her best suit that morning instead of the usual blouse and pencilslim skirt she favoured. The expensive material and beautiful cut of the suit always made her feel good, and she had felt, after the agency had rung, that she might need something of a boost if she was stepping into the domain of such an illustrious and well-known mogul as Strade of Strade Engineering. Little had she known then how right she was! ‘I did not burst into your office, as you are well aware. The door was open and I had been asked to wait just outside, where every word of your conversation with Mr Connoly was received loud and clear. In view of the fact that I only qualify on one of the requirements you laid out in such graphic detail, I assumed there was no point in my continuing to wait.’
‘And that is?’ he asked coldly. The frown had died now, to be replaced by an expression of almost blank coolness.
‘My typing speed.’ It was hard work to keep her gaze from faltering from the rapier-sharp eyes, but she was determined to hang on in there. ‘My hair is blonde, I am twenty-seven years of age and my skirt—’ she glanced down for just a second to the tapered material that finished just below her knees ‘—is not ankle-length,’ she finished tightly.
‘No…’ His eyes had followed hers and lingered for just a second on the length of slender leg encased in gossamer-thin stockings the skirt exposed. ‘No, it isn’t.’ As the icy gaze met hers again she found it hard to stop a shiver from showing. There was a coldness in his eyes, his whole face, that was positively raw in its bleakness, turning the high, chiselled cheekbones and square, hard jaw into stone. He had to be the most detached, unapproachable man she had ever met in her whole life. And the two girls before her had made a pass at this block of ice? She’d like to shake their hands for sheer nerve.
‘Goodbye, then, Mr Strade.’ She hadn’t even begun to turn this time when the frosty voice rang out again.
‘I do the hiring and firing, and as yet I am not aware that either applies. You came for an interview and my time is valuable and not to be wasted. Sit down, Miss…?’
‘I’d rather not.’ She didn’t know where this aplomb was coming from—perhaps the chill that was emanating from him was affecting her, because in all fairness she should feel grossly intimidated, but instead her cheeks were burning with rage. ‘And it’s Worth, Mrs Worth,’ she finished with cold emphasis.
‘You’re married?’ The relief on his face was transparent and added to Lydia’s sense of outrage. What did he expect her to do, for goodness’ sake? Leap over the desk and rip off his trousers at the slightest encouragement? The man’s ego was jumbo-sized.
‘Yes, but I really don’t think——’
‘Please sit down, Mrs Worth.’ The transformation was sudden and breathtaking. What had been a block of stone metamorphosed instantly into the secretary’s ideal of the perfect boss—smiling, handsome and exuding benevolence. ‘We seem to have got off on the wrong foot, for which I accept the blame entirely.’
It was a twenty-four-carat smile, she had to give him that, Lydia thought weakly as she felt herself persuaded into the large, easy seat opposite the magnificent shiny desk in gleaming walnut. Mr Connoly still continued to hover anxiously at his managing director’s side, his mild, watery eyes begging her to be reasonable.
‘Could we put this unfortunate episode aside and begin anew?’ The vivid blue eyes fastened on her again and she realised with a little jolt that they were still as hard as iron. She had read somewhere that the eyes were considered windows to the soul in some cultures, and if that were the case…The shiver returned tenfold. ‘I don’t know how much Mr Connoly has told you about the position, but my very able and efficient secretary is at present on maternity leave.’ The harsh twist to his mouth as he spoke revealed his opinion of the poor woman’s amazing audacity more eloquently than any words could have done. ‘The agency we were with until yesterday provided…unsuitable replacements, and I do not have the time or the inclination to continue along that particular avenue.’ His scathing comments on her predecessors returned with renewed vigour and she nodded non-committally as her mind raced.
‘I want a secretary for the next few months who is prepared to work hard and be flexible when the occasion warrants it,’ he continued coldly. ‘Mrs Havers was forced to leave a month early due to some unforeseen difficulties, so I have been left in rather a vulnerable position, and I don’t like that, Mrs Worth.’ His smile was ironic. ‘I don’t like that at all.’ She glanced again at the firm, cruel mouth and ruthless, handsome face and nodded mentally. She could believe that, very definitely. She didn’t smile back.
‘For the right person, the rewards will match the dedication I require,’ he said quietly, after waiting a moment for her to speak, ‘but you understand this is not a nineto-five job.’
As Mr Connoly opened his mouth to speak, the other man glanced at him, motioning towards the door with a hard flick of his wrist. ‘Coffee, I think, Ted? Perhaps you’d organise that?’ he asked coldly.
‘Certainly, certainly.’ Mr Connoly fairly scampered across the room and out of the door, clearly glad to be out of a potentially difficult situation.
‘Mr Strade, I don’t think——’
He cut across her voice as though he hadn’t heard her, his tone reasonable, but with that underlying thread of steel that made her hackles rise. ‘The salary is not the usual agency rate, but if you accept the position you will earn every penny.’ He mentioned a figure that made her eyes widen and her mouth open slightly before she closed it with a little snap. With that amount guaranteed even for two or three months, she could afford to redecorate Hannah’s bedroom, turning it from a nursery into a little girl’s room, and perhaps even lash out on a new carpet for the lounge—the other was threadbare. And definitely those outstanding bills wouldn’t keep her awake any longer at night. But to work in close contact with this man each and every day? Could she endure it?
‘Of course, you may feel that, with family commitments, you couldn’t accept such a post if it was offered.’
‘I’m sorry?’ She raised her head from mental calculations of gas, electricity and water bills, realising she hadn’t heard a word he’d said in the last thirty seconds.
‘Your husband,’ he said patiently, his face expressionless. ‘Perhaps he would object to you working late or having to take off at short notice for a couple of days? It is not unusual for me to have to visit my subsidiaries at an hour’s notice and, as I have branches in Scotland, Wales, Manchester and Ireland, it often necessitates an overnight stay. Some husbands would find this unacceptable.’
Now was the moment to tell him. She stared across the
