Savoy?’ Heather squeaked in consternation.
‘On the house, Miss…Miss…I don’t know your name…’
‘Heather. Heather Ross.’ She smiled shyly at him, marvelling at his patience and consideration, especially when you considered that from what she’d gathered, people found him scary.
Theo, she noticed, did not bother to give her his name, but perhaps he assumed that she would already know it—as indeed she did. She saw it every evening in gold plate on his door. Buoyed up by the kick from the brandy, and the realisation that hunger had brought on her unaccountable loss of strength, Heather dialled through to the Savoy, even though the practical streak in her knew that it was a ridiculous nonsense when all she probably needed was a cheese sandwich and a bottle of water. She was vaguely aware, in the background, that an urgent and hushed conversation was being conducted, one to which he clearly did not want her to be a party, and as soon as he was off the phone she turned to him with stricken eyes.
‘I’ve messed up your arrangements for this evening, haven’t I?’
She could tell that this line of conversation was not falling upon fertile ground, but her tendency to blurt out what happened to be in her head did not go hand in hand with the silent approach he clearly wanted. He would order in food for her, or rather get her to order in her own food—which she had sensibly confined to sandwiches, astounded at the effect his name had had on whoever was in charge of the reception desk at the Savoy—but beyond that he did not want her chatter.
‘No matter.’ He shrugged. ‘I couldn’t make it anyway.’ Not that Claudia had seen it in quite that light. In fact, his ears were still ringing from the sound of the telephone being banged down at the other end, and he could hardly blame her. He consoled himself with the absolute fact that the minute a woman started making demands on his time it was almost certainly the time to dispose of her. In this case, the woman in question had disposed of herself.
‘Was it important?’ Heather asked anxiously.
‘What’s important is lying on my desk, waiting to be read, so if you don’t mind…’ He half expected her to launch into another conversation, but to his relief she maintained an obedient silence, though he couldn’t stop his eyes from straying towards her every so often, distracting him from the task at hand.
By the time the food arrived—couriered over—Theo had abandoned all hope of finishing the report, at least until he had escorted her out of the building.
‘Why have you not been eating?’ he asked, watching as she plunged into her sandwich with the gusto of someone suddenly released from a starvation diet.
‘There’s no need for you to make polite conversation,’ Heather said, tucking into sandwich number two. ‘I know you have heaps of work to do. These sandwiches are fantastic, by the way.’
‘I’ll get back to work once you’ve gone.’
‘Oh, I feel fine now. I might as well finish what I came to do.’ She glanced across at him and then quickly reverted her attention back to the diminishing pile of sandwiches, just in case she found herself staring again.
‘And encourage another fainting fit? I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘You mean in case I cause more hassle?’
Theo didn’t immediately answer. He was mesmerised by the sight of a woman eating so much. Judging by the women he knew, eating was fast becoming a dying art form. They nibbled at salad leaves or else pushed food around their plates as if one calorie too many might lead to sudden obesity.
‘I’m hungry,’ Heather said defensively. ‘Normally I’m a very light eater, as a matter of fact. I should really be rake-thin. But I have a very stubborn metabolism. It refuses to do its job.’
‘What’s the name of this firm you work for? I’ll call them and let them know that you’re in no fit state to continue here tonight.’ He reached for the telephone and was halted by her sudden squeak of panic.
‘You can’t do that!’
‘Why not?’ Black eyes narrowed shrewdly on her face. ‘I take it you are legally registered with the company, and not involved in any moonlighting as a tax dodge…’
‘Of course I’m not moonlighting!’ Heather denied hotly.
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘The problem is that I need to complete this job because I need my time sheet to be signed downstairs! I can’t afford to go home just because I felt a little sick!’ Awareness of her situation rushed through her and she slung her legs over the side of the sofa. All at once, released from the temporary daze of being in his presence and no longer feeling light-headed, she realised what an unappealing sight she must make. Hair everywhere, her robust frame encased in the least flattering garment known to mankind. She hardly presented the storybook image of a fragile, appealing damsel in distress. She ran her fingers self-consciously through her hair, feeling for the elastic band that had gone a bit askew and repositioning her ponytail back to where it should be, along with all the other rebellious curls that had managed to fall out.
‘Give me a minute,’ she said, sucking in a few deep lungfuls of air, ‘and I’ll be on my way.’ She stood up, and sat back down. She looked at him miserably. ‘Maybe I need a few minutes,’ she suggested. ‘I can wait outside. I don’t mind sitting on the ground—just till I gather myself. Honestly, I don’t know what the matter is…’
‘Are you pregnant?’ Theo asked abruptly.
Heather raised horrified eyes to him. ‘Pregnant? Of course I’m not pregnant! Why on earth would you think that? Oh…I know why. I’m young, I fainted, and I’m involved in manual work…therefore I must be a brainless bimbo who’s stupidly managed to get herself pregnant…’
‘That wasn’t my reason for suggesting it…’ Theo lied, discomfited by her accurate assessment of his thought processes.
‘Well, then…’ Another thought lodged in her head and she blushed painfully. ‘It’s because I’m fat, isn’t it?’
Not wanting to encourage this line of conversation, and seriously concerned that getting rid of the girl might prove more difficult than he had anticipated, Theo adroitly changed the subject.
‘I can’t have you collapsing on my premises.’ He walked over to her and looked down at the discreet name label pinned to the front of her overall. Distantly he registered that she certainly was on the plump side. Her breasts, pushing against the unyielding fabric, appeared to be voluminous. In every respect she was physically the antithesis of the women he dated, who were always leggy, brunette, flat chested and ultra-glamorous. ‘Hills Cleaning Services,’ he murmured to himself. ‘What’s the telephone number?’
Heather reluctantly provided him with the information and waited with a sinking heart as he called and explained the situation to her employer at the other end of the line.
‘I’ve been sacked, haven’t I?’ she asked gloomily, the minute he was off the phone.
‘Apparently there have been two incidents recently…?’
‘Oh, not fainting incidents,’ Heather expanded quickly, just in case he began thinking
