have changed your mind about working for me.’
She longed to say that she had, but dared not until she had talked to Paul and got his blessing.
Instead she answered with what conviction she could muster, ‘No, of course not, Mr Lorenson.’
‘As I said, when we’re away from the office I like a friendly, informal atmosphere, so make it Zane, and I’ll call you Abigail.’
‘I prefer Gail,’ she said quickly.
‘Then Gail it is.’
Very conscious of the fact that he was studying her profile, and struggling to keep her composure, she turned to look at him, remarking steadily, ‘Yours is an unusual name.’
His white teeth gleamed in a smile before he told her wryly, ‘I used to curse my father—who had a regrettable taste for Westerns and read a lot of stories by Zane Grey—until I discovered that my mother would have called me Tarquin.’
In spite of herself, Gail smiled. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’
His eyes on her face, he said softly, ‘You’re quite beautiful when you smile.’
If it had been his intention to destroy her hard won composure, he succeeded. Completely thrown by both by his words and his close scrutiny, she found herself blushing hotly.
A moment later she heard his quiet, satisfied chuckle, before he said with mock repentance, ‘Dear me, now I’ve embarrassed you. I’m afraid I hadn’t realized that some women are still capable of being embarrassed by a compliment.’
Gail sat as if turned to stone as he added caustically, ‘Or anything else for that matter. Most of the females I’ve met, even as young as sixteen or seventeen, are able to throw themselves at a man without so much as a blush…’
Even as young as sixteen or seventeen… Oh, dear God, why had he said that unless he knew?
As she waited in an agony of fear and humiliation for the axe to fall, he went on, ‘It’s quite refreshing to meet a woman in her twenties who obviously doesn’t belong in that category.’ So he didn’t know. She released the breath she had been unconsciously holding. It was her own sense of guilt and shame that had turned a general reference into a specific incident.
Too wrung out to make any further attempt at conversation and wishing herself anywhere but where she was, she stared blindly ahead and made an effort to at least appear relaxed.
But while she remained taut as a drawn bow string she was well aware that her companion—who was leaning back, his long legs stretched negligently, his feet crossed neatly at the ankles—was completely at ease.
Nothing more was said until they turned into Rolchester Square and drew up outside the modern block of flats.
When the chauffeur opened the car door, as nonchalantly as possible, Gail told the man beside her, ‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ and hastily scrambled out.
She thought for a split second that she had succeeded in leaving him behind, but Zane followed on her heels, saying coolly, ‘If you can rustle up a cup of coffee, I could certainly use one.’
‘Of course,’ she agreed hollowly.
It would be no use attempting to phone Paul now. The internal walls of the flat were paper-thin. Even if she spoke quietly, Zane was bound to realize she was talking to someone.
She could use her mobile to send a text, of course. But if Paul was busy he might not bother to pick up a text message until lunch time, and that would be far too late.
A second or two’s thought convinced her that it would be better to wait until she reached the airport. Then she could slip into the Ladies’ and phone him from there.
If he was willing to let her back out, she could tell Zane that she had had second thoughts and get a taxi home.
Feeling a shade happier, she fished in her bag for the key and let them both into her ground floor flat which, though small, was as pleasant as the two girls could make it.
Dropping her bag on the coffee table and indicating one of the linen-covered armchairs, she asked, ‘Won’t you sit down?’
But, ignoring the polite invitation, Zane followed her through to the tiny kitchen and leaned idly against one of the work surfaces while she put the kettle on and spooned coffee into the cafetière.
Feeling all thumbs because he was watching her, she said, ‘I’m afraid we’ve only got milk. My flatmate’s trying to lose weight and she refused to put cream on the shopping list.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m quite happy with it black.’
Seeing her get out, and fill, a single cup, he queried, ‘Aren’t you going to join me?’
Anxious to bring an end to this nerve-racking situation, she shook her head. ‘I need to write a note for my flatmate before I start packing.’
If her appeal to Paul was successful, she could always tear the note up when she got back. If it wasn’t—and that didn’t bear thinking about—Lynne would need to know what was happening.
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