wanted him. She hadn’t even thought about her curves before, let alone that they would fit Quinn’s hands so well—if only he would touch her.
‘Why don’t you talk me through your work plan for the rest of the week, Magenta?’
He could switch tracks in an instant, leaving her reeling in his wake. She’d been right to be wary, and now it took several valuable seconds to get her brain in gear. ‘I’ve typed up a work plan which I’ve left in your office. Shall I get it for you?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
Quinn liked this game. He liked playing with her. And from what she’d seen of him so far Quinn only ever played to win. ‘I’d like you to see it,’ she said, breaking away. ‘I want you to know I won’t let you down.’
‘You won’t get the chance. There can be no special favours because you’re new to the job, Magenta. I expect the same productivity from you that I expect from the other girls. More, in fact, because I made the decision to put you in charge.’
Which was why she had made sure to be prepared. Going into the office, she retrieved her list and passed it to Quinn, who scanned it briefly before handing it back to her.
‘You’re going?’ She watched Quinn shrug on his overcoat.
‘Did you expect me to stay?’
Anger consumed her. Quinn knew just how to work her. She would have to move a lot faster if she were to avoid becoming his puppet—the woman who could not only knock up an excellent coffee on demand, or a spreadsheet or two, but who could also oblige Quinn in more personal areas of his life. What he needed was a strong woman to take him in hand, Magenta concluded. She had always believed she was strong—but was she strong enough?
Quinn’s laughing eyes put that challenge directly to her. ‘We’ll have a lot on tomorrow, Magenta. I’ll expect you in the office first thing, and I will make no allowances for the fact that you’re working late on your own project.’
‘Of course not.’ You unrepentant barbarian, she thought, smiling pleasantly.
‘Sleep well.’
‘I will.’ And I wouldn’t go to bed with you if you were the last man on earth, she thought, holding the smile. Unless you asked me nicely.
She refused to notice how attractively Quinn’s lips pressed down. ‘I almost forgot this,’ he said.
‘What is it?’ she said, gazing at the plain-brown paper bag.
‘A sandwich. In case you get hungry while you’re working.’ One last amused glance, and Quinn stepped inside the lift doors.
He knew she wanted him, Magenta realised. He no doubt also knew she was a complete novice where men were concerned. This was shaping up to be one hell of a fight. Whichever world they inhabited, she always liked a challenge.
Fortunately you could still flag down a cab in the sixties. If anything, the streets were calmer and the traffic far less frantic. Even the pavements were in better repair. And for a sixties buff like Magenta even the smallest detail, like a billboard featuring a youthful Elvis Presley in his latest film, was a source of the utmost fascination. But there were some things she couldn’t get used to: the lack of central heating in her house, the ice on the inside of the bathroom window, a bed that made her feel like the filling in a particularly well-chilled sandwich.
Tucking herself in beneath a cumbersome sheet, and several thin blankets with a ridiculously small eiderdown perched precariously on top, she realised that her passion for the sixties had made her overlook the privations that had existed then. She had taken the best parts—the comfortable and exciting parts—and had romanticised them to fit in with how she thought the sixties should be. But the truth was somewhat different, as she was rapidly finding out. And now she only had a couple of hours in this frigid room to rest her head before getting up for work again.
The phone rang, annoyingly. Without opening her eyes, she risked one warm arm to reach into the chilly air and pick it up. The voice on the other end of the line was deeply male and instantly recognisable. ‘Magenta? Are you awake?’
‘Wh…wh…?’ How long had she been asleep? Five minutes? Less? ‘Yes?’ Magenta realised she was sitting bolt-upright and practically saluting.
‘Aren’t you out of bed yet? ‘
Quinn’s deep, sexy voice lacked all vestige of charm. ‘Of course I am,’ she huffed, getting tangled up in the phone cord as she rolled out of bed.
‘Good, because I’m at the office, and you should be too.’
She stumbled over the cord.
‘Magenta, what’s happening there? ‘
‘Nothing. Why? ‘ she demanded, untangling herself.
‘I can hear a lot of banging about.’
‘That would be the front door closing,’ she covered for herself, stretching the curly phone-cord to its limit as she peered through the open bathroom door. ‘Just getting the milk in.’
Quinn hummed. ‘Forget breakfast and get in here, will you? A national newspaper has announced that its first colour supplement will be launched in the New Year, and—’
‘And we’re going to be in it!’ she exclaimed excitedly.
‘That’s the plan.’
‘Fantastic!’ It was fantastic. And would be even more so if Quinn could only bring himself to trust her with the smallest detail, rather than expecting her to type up the minutes of his latest meeting. But first things first; the sooner she got herself back to the office, the sooner she was back in the game. ‘I’m just putting the phone down for a second,’ she said, knowing the phone cord wouldn’t stretch far enough. ‘Hang on.’
Rushing into the bathroom, Magenta looked in vain for the shower. She would have to take a quick bath—a cold bath, as it turned out. Too late now to notice the switch on the wall and realise she’d have had to turn it on some hours earlier if she wanted the luxury of hot water.
‘Fantastic?’ Quinn bellowed as she picked up the phone again. ‘Is that all you have to say about it? I can’t believe you’re awake yet, Magenta. This is a national first and I want a big, visual splash for Style Design in that first supplement—Magenta? Are you still there?’
Barely. She had stepped into the frigid water and made a big splash of her own. Down, up and that would have to do it. Teeth chattering, she reached for a small, scratchy towel.
No fluffy bath-sheet warming gently on a heated towel-rail.
No bath sheet, full-stop.
Lodging the phone between her shoulder and chin, she jumped about to keep warm as she flung open the single wardrobe door. Now here was a thing—a disposable paper dress in a black-and-white op-art pattern. Paper clothes would be put to good use in clinics in the future, though not in this flamboyant design. She smiled wryly. Goodness knew how, but dresses like these were making it to the fashion pages of the sixties, judging by the magazines she’d seen in the office. This particular company’s bold claim was that they were not only at the cutting edge of fashion,
