can’t fault the man on business acumen.’
‘I see.’ As Charles went on, explaining the details of the transaction and the part everyone had played in it, Joanne’s heart sank deeper and deeper.
It had been Charles who had insisted on the opt-out clause, Charles who had wanted to walk away at once without any long-drawn-out and heart-rending, mentally exhausting valedictions. And she’d accused Hawk Mallen of... She inwardly squirmed as she remembered the exact charges she’d laid at his feet. Oh, what a mess, what a terrible, almost laughable mess. Thank goodness she could rely on Charles for a good reference because she sure as eggs wouldn’t get one from the eminent Mr Mallen.
If he wasn’t as mad as hell at her, he’d be laughing his head off, and of the two options she’d much prefer the former, she thought painfully as a pair of piercingly blue cold eyes set in a hard, uncompromising face swam into the screen of her mind. But fortunately she’d never know one way or the other anyway, having burnt her bridges so completely.
And now she would have to tell Clare and Charles...
They were upset, horrified, bewildered—blaming themselves, Hawk Mallen, anyone but Joanne—but by the time she left their tranquil home, after an alfresco lunch under the clear September sky, she had their solemn promise not to try to get her reinstated in any way.
She had made her bed and she would lie on it, she thought determinedly on the drive home, and maybe it was time for a change anyway. She was twenty-nine years of age, and after the years of exams and striving for her degree she had only had two jobs—one of which was Concise Publications—and had hardly seen anything of life. The trip round Europe these past weeks had opened her eyes to the fact that there was a big wide world out there, just waiting to be explored, and perhaps this was the nudge she needed to get moving?
She had been happy and safe the last few years, Charles and Clare’s open-armed drawing of her into their family going some way to heal the hurts of the past, but whilst she was cocooned in such a protected environment she would never reach out for more. And she wanted more.
The thought was a surprise, opening her eyes wide for an instant as she considered it. But it was true. Not the bonds of matrimony or a husband—she felt the panic and fear that accompanied such a possibility wash over her before she thrust them back behind the closed door in her mind—but she wanted to travel, to see new places, new cultures, work in different environments. And she could do it; she could. As Charles had said, the umbilical cord had been cut, nothing would be the same again, so now was the time.
Her spacious one-bedroom flat on the top storey of an old renovated house overlooking myriad rooftops and a wide expanse of light washed sky welcomed her as she opened the front door, the large terracotta-tiled balcony where she ate most of her meals during the spring and summer causing a momentary hiccup in her plans. Could she leave it? This, her first real home where she had been so happy, so secure?
She opened the French windows from the high-ceilinged lounge and walked out on to the flower-bedecked balcony, noting that most of the plants festooning the walls and floor were alive and thriving, for which she had to thank her neighbour on the floor below who had promised faithfully to water them each evening.
She was brought from further musing by the strident ringing of the telephone in the room she had just left and hurried back indoors, lifting the receiver and speaking breathlessly as she gave the number, fully expecting it to be Clare making sure she had reached home safely after the emotion of the day.
It wasn’t Clare.
‘Miss Crawford?’ The deep dark voice was unmistakable. ‘This is Hawk Mallen.’
‘I . . . What...? Yes, Mr Mallen?’ Oh, pull yourself together, for goodness’ sake, she thought scathingly as she heard her faltering voice with a burst of self-contempt that was humiliating. What did she sound like? But she sat down very suddenly on the little pouffe next to the phone, her legs turning to jelly.
‘Are you in full possession of all the facts relating to the takeover of Concise Publications by Mallen Books now?’ the male voice, with its almost gravelly texture, asked expressionlessly.
‘I think... I think so, and I just want to say I didn’t realise... That is, I know I spoke out of turn—’
‘Miss Crawford, I didn’t ring for an apology, if that’s what you are thinking, although it is acknowledged and accepted.’
She blinked a little, even more glad she was sitting down as her stomach turned over with a shuddering jerk. He was terrifying—in spite of the miles separating them that dark, formidable aura swept into the room along with his voice and caused her nerves to go haywire.
Once Charles had accepted she was serious about not going back he had related numerous stories about the Mallen empire, most of them featuring Hawk Mallen, and as she had listened she had known that even if today had not happened she could not have worked for this single-minded, utterly frightening, ruthless tycoon. He was the original workaholic according to Charles—cold, untouchable, his reputation built purely by his own efforts and having nothing to do with his grandfather’s name. As Charles had gone on the main element to her emotion was sheer wonder that she had dared to say all she had to this walking legend. No wonder he had looked so amazed as she had left; it was doubtful if anyone had ever spoken to him like that before, or walked out on him either.
‘Miss Crawford? Are you still there?’
She realised she was sitting in a kind of trance and jerked to life with the voice in her ear. ‘Yes, yes, I am.’ Breathe deeply, talk coherently, act your age. ‘Thank you—’
‘I would like to see you privately; I think the office staff have been entertained enough for one day,’ he said silkily, his voice so smooth and bland that for a moment the import of his words didn’t strike home. ‘And preferably before the day starts tomorrow. Would this evening be convenient?’
‘This evening?’ Her voice was a squeak of horror—she knew it and he must have heard it, and now she began to gabble in an effort to cover up. ‘I don’t think so. I’ve just got back from holiday, you see, and there are things to do. I really can’t—’
‘Shall we say eight o’clock?’ The silkiness sheathed cold steel, but in spite of his intimidation a little spurt of anger at his arrogance rose, hot and fierce.
‘I honestly don’t think there is any point, Mr Mallen.’ Her voice was firmer but she was still glad she was sitting down. ‘I can call by the office at your convenience to pick up my salary cheque and clear any outstanding matters you might need my assistance on; I’m quite prepared to help—’
‘In that case you will see me this evening,’ he said coolly. ‘I’m not asking you for a date—’ there was a moment’s pause when she felt herself flush bright scarlet ‘—merely suggesting we discuss certain business matters over dinner.’
‘But—’
‘That’s settled, then. Eight it is.’ And the phone went dead. She stared at it for a full minute—the deep voice with its faint American accent still ringing in her ears—before she slowly replaced the receiver, but even then she made no effort to stand. He was taking her out to dinner? Hawk Mallen? Taking her out to dinner? She couldn’t; she just couldn’t.
She picked up the phone again and dialled Charles’s number, her hand shaking.
‘Charles Brigmore?’ His voice was so
