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,’ Ruth said with a serious face. ‘I felt fine afterwards.’
‘Ruth Jacobs!’ Jack said, shocked. ‘You’re not supposed to say naughty things like that! Especially looking the way you do, all fetching, sexy innocence with those two blonde pigtails and big, tempting eyes…’ He playfully pulled the ends of both the plaits with his hands, so that she was more or less compelled to incline her body towards his, and it was while they were in this awkward stance, both of them laughing, that Alison’s door opened and there was a general flurry of scattered bodies as Franco stood and watched what was going on.
Ruth and Jack were the last to detach themselves from the situation.
‘An office hard at work,’ Franco said, pushing himself away from the doorframe and strolling towards them with the friendly expression of a barracuda on the prowl for food. ‘Such a reassuring thing to see—especially when I have just finished having a meeting with your boss to work out why the magazine isn’t doing as well as it should.’
He was dressed in a silver-grey suit, which he managed to transform into something elegant rather than functional, and a pale blue and white shirt with a dark blue tie. Very conservative, very traditional yet, on him, shockingly attractive.
Jack, who had been reduced to a state of tongue-tied embarrassment, launched himself into a comprehensive stream of apologies, which Franco, not bothering to look at him at all, waved aside.
He somehow managed to turn his broad back on the assembled eight members of staff now busily working at their desks, heads down, eyes focused, so that he could devote every scrap of uninvited attention to Ruth, who was the last one left still standing and with nowhere to conceal herself.
‘So,’ he said softly, which just succeeded in making his exclusion of the rest of the office from their conversation all the more complete, ‘does flirting list among your dogsbody jobs?’
‘I wasn’t…flirting!’ Ruth protested in a low, heated voice. ‘Jack was just…’
‘Playing with your hair…’
She tried to slide her eyes around him to see whether their tête-à-tête was being observed, but decided that she would rather not know.
‘That’s r-right…’ she stammered absent-mindedly, as her eyes flitted over the downturned heads and rapt faces staring at computer screens.
He clicked his tongue impatiently, ‘Would you mind looking at me when I’m talking to you?’ he snapped, sharply enough for her to literally jump to attention.
‘Of course!’ She nearly saluted, and then had to stifle a giggle at the thought of what his expression would be like if she dared do any such thing.
‘Do you recall our little conversation on Friday?’
‘Which bit?’ Ruth asked cautiously. Her smoky grey eyes wandered away as she tried to recall what they had spoken about. She knew that if she put her mind to it she would have no trouble at all, although the overwhelming impression that remained with her of that night, like a thorn driven deep into her side, was the unwelcome feeling of being bludgeoned into the ground by something much like a steamroller.
‘Could I have your attention?’ he asked in a grim, irritable voice, and she shot him a nervous smile in response.
Did he realise that he had just raised his voice one or two decibels, and that in the small office all those downcast eyes were quietly boring a hole in the back of his neck, and that all those subdued voices would be eagerly anticipating his departure so that they could lay into her with a thousand and one questions?
Having never been the focus of gossip, the thought of it now was enough to bring Ruth out in a cold sweat.
She could hardly tell him to lower his tone, though, so she compensated by reducing the level of hers so much that he had to bend down to hear what she was saying.
‘I am paying attention, to every word you’re saying,’ she whispered furtively, feeling like a dodgy character in a third-rate movie.
‘I’ve spoken to Alison about my little proposition…’
‘What little proposition?’
‘Do you have any concentration span at all?’ he snapped.
He glared down at her. Most of the women he knew—had ever known, for that matter—achieved a near perfect complexion through generous, skilful application of make-up. This girl, staring up at him, her teeth anxiously worrying her lip, had the most perfect complexion he had ever clapped eyes on, without the aid of any make-up at all. God, he could feel his mind beginning to drift, again, and he glared even more ferociously at her, further maddened by the glaringly obvious fact that although she was hearing every belligerent word he was saying she wasn’t seeing him at all.
Who was that boy who had been playing with her hair? Was there something going on there?
He fought to impose a bit of self-control and managed a stiff, artificial smile which appeared to alarm the object of his attentions even more than his aggression had done a minute before.
‘Maybe we could continue this conversation in Alison’s office. A bit more private.’
‘Oh, yes!’ Ruth breathed a sigh of relief. She had just managed to accidentally catch Jack’s eye and had quickly looked away when he had grinned and winked at her.
‘After you,’ he said, stepping aside so that she could precede him.
Ruth, in her usual uninspiring attire of neat powder-blue skirt and long-sleeves blouse, was acutely conscious of his eyes behind her, following her movements. She was also conscious of Jack shooting her telling, questioning looks from where he was seated at an angle away from his desk, and with a sidelong glance she smiled at him and flashed him the smallest of waves. A conspiratorial wave that combined bewilderment at Franco Leoni’s inexplicable shepherding of her into Alison’s office and dread at what it indicated.
‘Mind if I have a word with Ruth alone?’ Franco asked, as soon as they were in the office, and Alison obligingly exited at speed, either relieved to be out of his presence or else frantic to obey his every command.
‘Take a seat.’ He indicated the black chair in front of the desk and Ruth sat down, only to find that he had remained standing, so that to look at him she had to crane her neck.
He strolled across to the bay window which opened onto the busy view of a London street in full swing, and, after idly staring
