occurred today, along with any other incidents which are relevant. Dates and times as far as possible, please. Mr Roberts will be doing the same in here with me.’ He reached over and pressed the buzzer on the desk as he finished speaking, and Margaret appeared immediately like a genie out of a bottle, indicating the managing director’s secretary had been burning with curiosity.
‘Coffee, please, Margaret,’ Jacques said pleasantly as Holly began to walk out of the room. ‘And a cup for Miss Stanton too, if you would be so kind? She will take hers in the little box.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Querruel?’
Holly left them to it, shutting the door behind her before she dived across Margaret’s office and into hers. She sat down at her word processor, glancing about the small space and aware her heart was beating like a drum and tears born of reaction weren’t too far away. She took several deep breaths, willing herself to keep calm. It was a little box. He might not have liked the terminology, but, nevertheless, that was what it was, she told herself militantly as she forced her mind away from the main trouble of the day and on to Jacques Querruel’s last words.
Margaret appeared in the doorway a moment later and her homely, middle-aged face was a picture. ‘So what’s happened?’ she whispered urgently, adding inconsequentially, ‘I’ve ordered the coffee.’
Holly told her as quickly and concisely as she could whilst they both kept an ear cocked for any movement from Mr Roberts’s office, and when she had finished the older woman amazed her by putting a comforting arm round her shoulders as she said, ‘He’s a nauseating little bug, Holly, and he’s needed squashing for a long time. I’ve never had any trouble with him, of course—’ Margaret had been happily married for three decades and had two grown-up children ‘—but I know at least one girl who’s left rather than cause a fuss when he kept bothering her. I’ve tried to speak to his father about it on a couple of occasions but I met with a blank wall. Mr and Mrs Roberts lost two children in a road accident before Jeff was born the following year, so he’s always been able to do nothing wrong in their eyes.’
‘Whatever happens, I’m not going to be the flavour of the month with him, then, am I?’ Holly commented miserably.
‘Oh, don’t worry, it’ll be all right,’ Margaret said bracingly, and then as one of the canteen staff entered her own office with the coffee she gave Holly another reassuring pat on the shoulder before bustling away.
She had better start looking for another job right now, tonight. Holly sat staring at the dingy grey filing cabinets for a moment or two, and then, as Margaret came in with her cup of coffee, began typing out her statement. Just her luck to end up in a place where the company lech was the son of the managing director!
She found she had to concentrate very hard on what she was doing over the next hour or so. Not that she couldn’t remember all the details of the incidents over the last weeks—she could. Even though some of the dates escaped her. But it was more the fact that the image of an aggressively masculine face kept getting between her and the keys.
She checked everything twice before she printed the pages out, and then once the report was in her hand she checked it again. She hadn’t elaborated or exaggerated anything, she decided at last. She hadn’t had to. The bare facts were bad enough. Seeing it all in black and white like this made her wonder why she’d waited so long to give Jeff his come-uppance! She loathed bullies, and he was one of the sickest kind.
‘It is that bad, yes?’
Her head jerked up from the papers in her hand to see Jacques Querruel standing watching her. One dark eyebrow was quirked mockingly and there was a disturbing gleam in the amber eyes. He had taken off his leather biking jacket, she noticed dazedly, and the plain charcoal T-shirt he was wearing sat on broad, muscled shoulders. He must work out every day to have a physique like that.
She felt her heart thudding against her ribcage and it annoyed her, along with his air of relaxed authority. He’d be fully aware of the effect he had on women, she thought hotly, expecting every female from Margaret’s age down to fall at his feet in worship. For a moment she just sat there, dry-mouthed and silent, but then his arrogance sent the adrenalin flowing fiercely. He might be the sacred head of Querruel International, and drop-dead gorgeous to boot, but he had absolutely no effect on her at all, she told herself vehemently. Added to which she had the distinct feeling she wouldn’t be working here much longer anyway.
She straightened, aware of the hectic colour staining her cheeks but unable to do anything about it. ‘Judge for yourself,’ she said curtly, knowing it wasn’t at all the way to speak to the ultimate kingpin but unable to help herself.
The smile had been wiped off his handsome face, Holly noted with some satisfaction as he walked over to her and took the papers she was holding out. And she didn’t know why but she made very sure their fingers didn’t touch.
She had hoped he would take the report back to his office and read it there, but instead he idly brushed some papers out of the way and perched on the side of her desk. Her little cubby-hole had never been big by any standards, as she’d already made abundantly plain to him, but now it seemed to shrink away to nothing. He was so close she could smell the exclusive, subtle odour of his aftershave, and that, together with the leather trousers stretched tight over lean male thighs, was making her face burn in the most peculiar way.
She forced her eyes upwards a little, where they fell on to his hands. They were powerful, with long, strong fingers and short, clean fingernails. An artist’s hands, or maybe a musician’s… And then she caught the thoughts angrily. He was neither of those things, for goodness’ sake, she told herself irritably. She knew from office gossip that he was a ruthless, hard and inexorable businessman, who gave no favours and asked for none. He liked fast cars and motorbikes, and even faster women—so she had heard—and was a millionaire many times over. Not exactly the type of man to sit painting watercolours!
The chiselled profile was frowning when she looked at his face, and he raked back his hair—as black as a raven’s wing—a couple of times as he read. Even sitting quite still as he was now vitality radiated from him; she had never come across such a disturbing man before. It was probably quite unreasonable, because to date she had to admit he had been pretty fair in the circumstances, but she didn’t think she liked Jacques Querruel one little bit.
He was on the last page of the statement; he’d obviously got to the bit she’d written about the incident that morning, and to her surprise she heard him swear softly under his breath. She didn’t speak French but there was no doubting the content of the muttered expletives. He turned his head, his amber eyes meeting her blue, and his tone was almost an accusation when he said, ‘Why the hell did you not do something about this before? You are not the type who cannot say boo to the goose.’
The fact that his perfect English had let him down just a fraction gave Holly a disproportionate amount of satisfaction as she said coldly, ‘I was hoping to deal with it myself with the minimum of unpleasantness.’
‘Then you have not succeeded.’
‘That’s hardly my fault, is it?’ she snapped back angrily. Hateful man! He’d be blaming her for everything in a moment. ‘I wanted to keep my job; that’s not a crime.’
‘Indeed it is not, Miss Stanton,’ he agreed smoothly. ‘I understand you have only been with Querruel International a few weeks?’
‘Eight,’ she clarified militantly. ‘And if you say Mr Roberts has been with the company for a lot longer without anyone complaining before that’s not because there haven’t been grounds, I assure you.’
‘I
