wonder he had risen so dramatically fast to the top of his field, she thought ruefully as she neared the row of shops over which her flat—and ten others—were situated. Other men might have his astute business sense and brilliance, but they were lacking the almost monomaniacal drive of the head of Quentin Dynamics.
Was he like that in all areas of his life? A sudden picture of Caroline de Menthe was there on the screen on her mind, along with the long list of women’s names in the little black book he had tossed to her. It was an answer in itself and it made Sephy go hot inside.
He would be an incredible lover; of course he would! He had lush beauties absolutely panting after him, and inevitably they were reduced to purring pussycats by the magnetism that surrounded him like a dark aura, if all the society photographs and office gossip were anything to go by.
He was king of the small kingdom he had created, an invincible being who had only to click his fingers to see his minions falling over themselves to please him. And he knew it.
She didn’t know why it bothered her so much but it did. Sephy was frowning as she delved in her shoulder bag for her keys to unlock the outside door, behind which were stairs leading to the front door of her flat, and the frown deepened as she heard Jerry’s voice call her name.
Jerry was the young owner of the menswear shop, and nice enough, even good-looking in a floppy-haired kind of way, but although Sephy liked him she knew she could never think of him in a romantic sense. He was too…boyish.
Jerry, on the other hand, seemed determined to pursue her, even after she had told him—politely but firmly—that there was no chance of a date. It made her feel uncomfortable, even guilty, when he was so likeable and friendly, as though she was smacking down a big amiable puppy with dirty feet who wanted to play.
She raised her eyes, her hand still in her bag, and turned her head to see Jerry just behind her, the very epitome of public school Britain in his immaculate flannels and well-pressed shirt.
‘Just wanted to remind you about Maisie’s party tonight,’ he said earnestly. ‘You hadn’t forgotten?’
She had. Maisie occupied the flat two doors along, above her own boutique, and her psychedelic hair—dyed several vivid colours and gelled to stick up in dangerous-looking spikes—and enthusiastic body-piercing hid a very intelligent and shrewd mind. And Maisie’s parties were legendary. The trouble was—Sephy’s eyes narrowed just the slightest as her mind raced—Maisie and all of Jerry’s other friends knew how he felt about her and, ever since she had moved into the flat, some eight weeks ago, had been trying to pair them off.
She had just opened her mouth to give voice to the weakest excuse of all—a blinding headache, which had every likelihood of being perfectly true the way her head was thumping after the hectic day—when a deep cold voice cut through the balmy evening air like a knife through butter.
‘It would have been quicker to walk here with this damn traffic.’
‘Mr Quentin!’ She had whirled right round to face the road at the sound of his voice and her heart seemed to stop, and then race on like a greyhound.
Conrad Quentin was sitting at the wheel of a silver Mercedes, the driver’s window down and his arm resting on the ledge as he surveyed her lazily from narrowed blue eyes in the fading light. The big beautiful car, the dark, brooding quality of its inhabitant and the utter surprise of it all robbed Sephy of all coherent thought, and it was a few moments before the mocking sapphire gaze told her she was looking at him with her mouth open.
She shut her lips so suddenly her teeth jarred, and then made a superhuman effort to pull herself together as she muttered in a soft aside to Jerry, ‘It’s my boss from work,’ before walking quickly across the pavement to the side of the waiting vehicle.
‘One set of keys.’ He spoke before she could say anything. ‘I noticed them on the floor as I was leaving and thought they might be important?’ he added quietly as he handed her the keyring.
She stared at the keys for a moment before raising her burning face to his cool perusal. Her flat keys, the keys to her mother’s house and car, as well as those for Mr Harper’s office and the filing cabinets. What must he be thinking? she asked herself hotly. It wasn’t exactly reassuring to think one’s temporary secretary was in the habit of mislaying such items. Ex-temporary secretary!
‘I dropped my bag earlier.’ It was a monotone, but all she could manage. ‘They must have fallen out.’
‘Undoubtedly.’ It was very dry.
‘Tha…thank you.’ Oh, don’t stutter! Whatever else, don’t stutter, she told herself heatedly.
‘My pleasure.’ He eyed her sardonically.
‘It was when the fax from Einhorn came through,’ she said quickly. ‘I knew you were waiting for it and I knocked my bag off the desk as I went to reach for it. I must have missed the keys…’ Her voice trailed away weakly. It could have been his keys she’d dropped, the keys to his confidential papers and so on, if he had retrieved Madge’s set. Which he hadn’t yet. And when he did, he was hardly likely to give them to her now, was he? she belaboured herself miserably. He must think she was a featherbrain! And she’d never done anything like this with Mr Harper.
‘No one is perfect, Seraphina.’ And then he further surprised her when he added, the brilliant blue eyes holding hers, ‘It’s a relief, actually. I was beginning to think I’d have my work cut out to keep up with you.’
Her mouth was open again but she couldn’t help it.
‘So…’ His dark husky voice was soft and low. ‘Is that the boyfriend?’ The blue eyes looked past her and they were mocking.
‘What?’ She was still recovering from being let off the hook.
‘The guy who is glaring at me.’ It was a slow, amused drawl. ‘Is he your boyfriend?’
Belatedly she remembered Jerry, and as she turned her head, following the direction of Conrad Quentin’s eyes, she saw Jerry was indeed glaring. ‘No, no of course not,’ she said distractedly. ‘He’s just a neighbour, a friend.’
The black eyebrows went a notch higher. ‘Really?’ It was cryptic.
‘Yes, really,’ she snapped back, before she remembered this was Conrad Quentin she was talking to. ‘He…he owns the shop below my flat,’ she said more circumspectly. ‘That’s all.’ And then she added, as the vivid blue gaze became distinctly uncomfortable, ‘Thank you so much for bringing the keys, and I’m sorry to have put you to so much trouble.’
‘How sorry?’ he asked smoothly.
‘What?’ It was becoming a habit, this ‘what?’, but then she might have known he wouldn’t react like ninety-nine per cent of people would to her gracious little speech, she told herself silently.
‘I said, how sorry?’ he drawled lazily, the sapphire eyes as sharp as blue glass. ‘Sorry enough to accompany me to the hospital tonight?’
She almost said ‘The hospital?’ before she managed to bite back the fatuous words and say instead, ‘Why would you want me to do that, Mr Quentin?’ with some modicum of composure.
‘I told you, I don’t like hospitals,’ he said easily as he settled back in the leather seat. ‘Besides,
