a ridiculous urge to impress her. To say something or do something that would make her look at him with the hot interest he had become accustomed to in members of the opposite sex. He watched the way her blonde straight hair slipped across her face as she ate and the way she tucked it casually behind her ears. She looked about bloody sixteen! He must be going mad!
‘You never told me,’ she said, interrupting his thoughts, which were veering off wildly into the arena of sexual foreplay. ‘Are you from Italy?’ She blushed and smiled. ‘Silly question. Of course you are with a name like yours. How long have you lived in London?’
‘Most of my life. My mother was Irish, my father was Italian.’ What, he wondered, would it feel like to reach out and touch that peach-smooth face? The thought fascinated him. He realised that he wasn’t eating and shovelled some mouthfuls in while his mind wandered away again. What would her body look like? It was difficult to tell underneath her demure calf-length skirt and neat white blouse. He toyed with the fantasy of divesting her of both, very, very, very slowly, and he could feel himself stiffening at the thought of it.
This was ludicrous! He was responding like a teenager who had never touched a woman in his life before!
‘How exotic!’ she responded, and it occurred to him that, however damned exotic she might find his ancestry, it wasn’t quite enough to distract her from the business of eating. In fact, he thought with a twitch of resentment, she seemed a lot more interested in the food than she did in him.
‘There’s no need to show polite interest,’ he said abruptly, and her grey eyes registered dismay at his reaction.
‘I am interested,’ she protested, unnerved by the sudden brusqueness in his voice. She was boring him. Of course she was. How could a gauche woman like herself ever hope to capture the interest of a man like him, all glamour and fast-lane living. ‘The food’s wonderful, isn’t it?’ she volunteered tentatively, feeling her way towards a topic that might smooth the undercurrent that seemed to have inexplicably developed.
‘I can see that you’ve enjoyed it,’ he said wryly.
Ruth gave a sheepish smile. ‘I have a very unladylike appetite, I’m afraid.’ She had managed to eat every mouthful, and if she had been in the company of anyone else would have happily bolted down some dessert as well. Instead, she closed her knife and fork, declined pudding and accepted coffee.
‘I guess you read what was in that letter I sent to your boss,’ he said casually, eyeing her over the rim of his cup. He had pushed himself away from the table so that he could sit at an angle, crossing his long legs.
‘Not really,’ Ruth answered. ‘I mean I scanned it…’
‘But still managed to get a pretty good idea of what I was trying to say.’
‘I don’t think that Alison would approve of my discussing something that was meant for her eyes only,’ Ruth eventually told him.
‘I shouldn’t trouble your head with such concerns,’ he dismissed. ‘I intend to have a little talk to the entire staff. Sales have picked up since we took over, but not enough. I’ve read what the three journalists have written over the months…have you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Ruth said enthusiastically.
‘And…? What’s your verdict?’
She couldn’t quite understand why her opinion should be of any concern, considering her lowly status in the company, but there was an interested glint in his eyes, so she sighed and said slowly, ‘I think it’s all been good. But I suppose there’s a little element of having lost the way. I mean,’ she said hurriedly, ‘their articles are so varied that there’s a bit of doubt as to what sector of the market the magazine is supposed to appeal to. Not,’ she felt compelled to add, ‘that I’m in any position to criticise.’
‘Why not?’ he asked bluntly, leaning forward so that his elbow was resting on the table and his eyes bored into her like skewers.
‘Because I’m not an editor.’
‘But you care about the company enough to want to see it improve?’
‘Of course I do!’ When she had joined it had been a fledgling firm, and was even now, and consequently, loyalty was abundantly given by everyone who worked in it.
‘Enough to do your little bit?’ he asked, leaning forward yet further.
‘Naturally I do my best… I can’t write, if that’s what you mean…but I help out…’ She looked at him, bewildered.
‘Good! Just what I wanted to hear.’ He signalled for the bill but kept his eyes on her face. ‘Because I have a proposition to put to you…’
‘What?’ There was enough of a predatory expression on his face to give her a clue that whatever he had in mind was not going to be to her liking.
‘I’ll discuss it with Alison first, but, yes…it’s time for a few changes, and you could be right where it matters…’
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN she arrived at work the following Monday morning, it was to find Alison in her office, door shut, which was a rare phenomenon, and, even rarer still, an atmosphere of hushed efficiency amongst the staff who had managed to pole up for work at a quarter to eight—an hour before their due starting time on a Monday, this was always limited to a handful, which increased as the week progressed.
She walked across to Janet Peters, one of the editors, opened her mouth to ask what was going on and, before she could get the question out, was greeted with a series of facial movements and twitches that left her a little confused.
‘Are you feeling all right, Jan?’ Ruth asked, concerned, and in reply Janet crooked her finger for Ruth to lean forward,
‘Guess who’s in with Alison…’ she hissed. ‘Hence the unnatural deathly quiet in this place…’
‘Franco Leoni, owner of Issues?’ Ruth hazarded, and then grinned when Janet fell backwards in her chair and stared at her with profound consternation.
‘How did you know?’
‘I knew…because…I am possessed of strange mystic forces that leave me with the uncanny ability to see into the other realm.’ She giggled and played with the blunt edge of one of her plaits, a sensible hairstyle that kept her hair away from her face though unfortunately made her look no older than twelve.
‘Be serious!’ Janet said sternly, by which time they had been joined by three others and the atmosphere was drifting inexorably back into cheerful, noisy confusion.
‘How did you know?’ Jack Brady asked, sitting on the desk and giving her a frank and open stare. Jack Brady, who looked only slightly older than twelve himself, with his freckles and thick fair hair, specialised in frank and open stares which fooled no one but the uninitiated.
‘He came here on Friday night, just as I was about to leave. Scared me to death as a matter of fact.’
‘Was that,’ Jack asked, frowning and tilting his head to one side, ‘before or after he asked you to lie prone on the desk so that he could have his wicked way with you?’
‘Before,’
