how the other woman spent her time during these frequent trips to London. She had a feeling James did too, although he never actually said anything about it.
‘Oh, Holly, sometimes I wish—Never mind,’ he dismissed harshly. ‘Could you get those letters typed and back to me as soon as possible. I doubt I'll get much work done once Maxine is back,’ he added ruefully.
Holly doubted it to. When Maxine was at home James's work schedule, and consequently Holly's own, went out of the window. Maxine was a woman of impulse, often deciding she wanted to do something or go out on the spur of the moment, and insisting that James accompany her.
Holly made her way to her own office at the back of this rambling house, well away from James's study so that her typewriter wouldn't disturb him while he wrote. Once in the privacy of her own room she allowed her disappointment about Maxine's return to show, hating the idea of her routine being disturbed. She liked order in her life, disliked impulsive action of any kind. The next few days, at least, looked like being very disrupted.
James Benedict was a famous author of thrillers, the storyline often having something to do with racing cars, his old profession, the profession that had put him in the wheelchair. He had first begun to write during the long months he had spent in hospital recovering from the accident, and had been lucky—or talented enough—to have his first book accepted while still confined to his bed. A second, third, and fourth book had been equally well received, being fresh and exciting, and always original. The mail that flooded in to him every day proved just how popular with the public his books were.
Holly had been delighted when she secured the position as his secretary, thrilled when he asked her to assist him with his research too. It was all a welcome change and challenge from the run-of-the-mill office jobs she had been doing for the last four years, liking the fact that she actually lived at the house, finding it no hardship to give up the last in a long line of flats she had occupied during the last few years of living on her own. It also meant she was on call if James should need her, and the two of them often spent their evenings working too, something she enjoyed.
But the thought of Maxine Benedict's return was enough to spoil the day for her. Maxine was everything she despised in a woman, flirtatious, too beautiful for any man to resist, and worse of all, Holly suspected, promiscuous. It was the latter she found so hard to forgive in the other woman, but she could think of no other reason for Maxine to spend so much time in London. Personally she had no idea of the full extent of James's injuries, although she thought it meant he couldn't play an active role in his marriage, which made Maxine's behaviour all the more abhorrent.
Holly deliberately made herself scarce in the house's vast library after lunch, attending to some of the research on South America that James needed for further chapters. It was a laborious task, but one that she enjoyed; no complaints were made by the public about even the finest detail in James's books—something she intended to continue.
She could hear the husky sound of Maxine's voice in the lounge as she passed the room on her way back to her office from the library, her precious notes and references clutched in her hand to show to James later.
She came to an abrupt halt as she entered her office, gasping as she saw the man standing across the room from her, his back turned towards her as he looked out of the window, the over-long golden hair so achingly familiar. But he was standing! ‘James …?’ she cried her disbelief. Surely James couldn't have been deceiving them all this time—–
The man turned slowly at the sound of her gasp, dispelling any doubts she might have had that it was James who stood there. Oh, the man's colouring was the same, so was the powerful physique, but there the similarity ended. Mocking green eyes steadily met her gaze, a long hawk-like nose jutting out arrogantly, the mouth strong and firm, quirking tauntingly as she continued to stare at him, his jaw square and determined. For all that his face showed lines of experience he still looked younger than James.
There was about the man an air of male challenge, an aura of sensuality that made Holly's defences instantly spring into action. Her mouth twisted contemptuously at the way his denims clung to him like a second skin, his shirt partly unbuttoned to reveal the darker blond hair on his chest, an obvious move on his part to draw attention to his virility as far as Holly was concerned. A man who believed in his own machismo!
She stepped past him to sit behind her desk, realising as she did so how tall he was when she only reached as far as his shoulders, her own height only just over five feet. She viewed him with cool violet eyes as he lounged against the side of her desk, her lashes darkened with mascara, that and a coral lipstick being her only make-up.
‘Obviously not,’ she dryly answered her own question, completely in control again now, over the shock she had received at first seeing him.
‘Obviously not,’ he echoed mockingly, looking down at her, his gaze openly speculative. ‘Not unless he's taken it into his head to get up and walk,’ he drawled. ‘And while he has people like you and his manservant fussing around him he isn't likely to do that, now is he?’ he mocked.
A hot tide of indignation welled up inside her. ‘How dare you say such a thing?’ she gasped, her eyes wide with accusation.
His smile widened, his teeth very white and even against his tanned skin. ‘Quite easily,’ he taunted without regret.
‘So I see,’ she snapped, pushing her notes into a drawer and locking it before glaring up at the man. ‘I don't know who you are—and to be perfectly truthful, I don't particularly care,’ she added insultingly. ‘But I find your mockery of a crippled man highly distasteful!’
‘James isn't crippled,’ his voice had hardened harshly. ‘Unless you count his mind.’
Her eyes widened even more at this attack on a man who wasn't even here to defend himself. ‘James has a wonderful mind,’ she told him heatedly. ‘As you would know if you've ever read any of his books!’
‘I've read them,’ the man confirmed scornfully.
‘Then you know he has a clever mind!’
The green eyes narrowed; the man's speculation was increasing. ‘Do you always defend James so—vehemently?’ he queried softly.
Holly flushed her resentment. ‘If I think he needs it, yes!’
‘And does he often—need it?’ the man taunted throatily, humour glinting in his eyes.
Holly glared her outrage at him for his implication. ‘If you're a friend of his—–’
‘I'm not,’ he stated flatly.
‘Not …?’ She looked at him uncertainly now, her eyes hardening with contempt as another reason for him being here occurred to her. ‘Then you must be a friend of Maxine's,’ she realised with sickening clarity.
Dark blond brows rose, his arms folded across the broadness of his chest, the red shirt he wore moulded to his powerful frame. ‘Must I?’ he taunted softly, mocking her unashamedly.
‘Aren't you?’ she challenged.
He seemed to consider for a moment. ‘I suppose I must be,’ he answered finally.
‘I see.’ Holly's contempt grew along with her anger. Not only did Maxine leave her husband to go to London for weeks at a time, but this time she had actually brought her current lover back with her. Couldn't she be content with hurting James at a distance!
‘Do
