‘What about your wife?’
Damn! She hadn’t meant to say that. Now he would know she was fishing.
‘My wife?’ He paused as they approached road-works, concentrated on dealing with a busy contra-flow of traffic.
‘Does she like football?’ Amanda held her breath. Her heart stopped beating.
‘I’ve never met a woman who does,’ he said. So? What did that mean? As if she didn’t know. ‘We’re almost there,’ he said, as they threaded through the cones and down the sliproad. ‘It looks like you’ll be on time after all.’
‘Wonderful.’ Fine. Perfect. Her head continued to churn out adjectives, none of which were wonderful, or fine, or perfect. In fact every one of them would have had Beth’s eyebrows glued to the ceiling.
For some minutes they sped through thickly wooded lanes, conversation at an end. Amanda, finding it essential to do something with her hands, reknotted the silk scarf at her throat, closed her laptop, gathered her case. By the time Daniel stopped in front of the portico of one of the most expensive hotels in England, she was ready to step out of the car and walk away. It was only determination to prove to herself that she was not desperate to escape that kept her in her seat, waiting for him to open the door for her.
Daniel slipped off the dark glasses, tucked them into his breast pocket, then walked around to open the door. High heels and gravel were a treacherous mix, and he offered his hand as she swung her legs out of the car. She placed her cool fingers on his without hesitation and straightened with all the poise of a model. All part of the ‘Garland Girls’ training, no doubt. ‘We’ve made it with two minutes to spare. You won’t get your wrist slapped by the dragon lady, after all,’ he said.
Only a man could be that patronising, Amanda decided, then amended the thought to a married man. A married man whose strong, work-hardened fingers were curled protectively about her own.
She very carefully removed her hand from his and glanced at her wristwatch to check the time. ‘Thank you, Daniel,’ she said, formally.
‘My pleasure, Miss Fleming.’ He moved to close the car door. ‘I’ll see you this evening.’
‘Will you?’ Her breath stilled in expectation.
‘At five.’
Of course. Why else would he see her? He had a wife. It was just as well. It wasn’t as if she needed him. Not for hard-to-get theatre tickets, not for anything. She could get her own tickets for any show in town, and all she had to do was click her fingers and half a dozen men would be fighting to lend her an arm, and anything else she wanted, for the evening.
Unfortunately she had never been able to work up much enthusiasm for any man who could be brought to heel like an eager puppy with his tongue hanging out, which was why she was making her own arrangements for the ‘anything else’.
But right now she was the one with her tongue dragging on the floor and it was definitely time to haul it back in.
‘I’ll try not to keep you waiting again,’ she said briskly, and walked into the hotel without a backward glance.
Daniel watched Mandy Fleming walk away from him. It wasn’t exactly a hardship. Those long legs moved her body along in the way a woman should be moved, slow and sexy. A woman’s walk said a lot about her. Mandy Fleming’s said confidence, style. But that straight back told him something else. She was feeling decidedly put out that he hadn’t asked her to go to the theatre with him. She’d have said no, but she’d expected to be asked. And he smiled to himself. How did that old saying go? Make ‘em laugh, make ‘em cry, make ‘em wait? He didn’t have much time for men who made women cry, but the other two … His smile broadened as he drove towards the gates of the hotel. Like riding a bicycle.
The morning dragged, endlessly. The afternoon was, if anything, worse, and Amanda had a hard time keeping herself focused as she gave her own presentation on the benefits of employing temporary staff. Just the slightest lapse in concentration and her mind was wandering off to dwell on smoky blue eyes and broad shoulders, good hands and a sexy smile, all carried on two well-muscled legs.
Two well-muscled, married legs.
DANIEL headed for the airport, picked up his passenger, delivered him to his hotel in Piccadilly and drove back to the garage. The traffic was a nightmare but he was working on automatic, his head full of Mandy Fleming.
How long had it been since a woman had stayed in his head for more than five minutes? How long had it been since he couldn’t wait to renew the acquaintance? But then Miss Fleming was one stylish lady. Those legs. That mouth.
His brows drew together as his thoughts strayed to the way she dressed. She had expensive tastes for a secretary. Even a top-of-the-range, seriously expensive Garland Agency secretary who merited a chauffeur-driven car.
Yet there had been something in her voice, something in her smile that had made his skin prickle with excitment. And the air had positively crackled with electricity when she’d put her hand on his for that briefest of touches. Oh, she’d been cool, her back ramrod-straight, but he knew she’d felt it too. The care with which she had removed her fingers from his had been too studied for anything else.
Then he pulled a face. Mandy Fleming wasn’t the kind of woman to be interested in a chauffeur. Well-educated, lovely to look at, she was the kind of secretary who would have her eyes firmly fixed on the boss rather than one of the bit-players. The thought brought an ironic smile to his lips, a smile that quickly faded.
Things had been so straightforward when he had been struggling to make a living with a one-car business. If a girl had smiled at him then he’d been sure that it wasn’t his money she was smiling at. All that had changed the day he’d bought a second car and taken on his first employee.
He pulled into the valeting area. ‘Any news from the hospital, Bob?’
‘It’s a girl, boss. Mother and baby doing well.’ There was nothing wrong with the words, just something about the way Bob said them that alerted him to trouble.
‘So what’s the problem?’ he asked.
Bob didn’t lift his gaze from the coach-built body-work he was stroking to an eye-dazzling shine; he simply jerked his grey head in the direction of the office. ‘Sadie arrived about half an hour ago. She’s in the office.’
Dan said something short and scatological.
‘It’s not half-term is it?’
‘No.’
The older man straightened, wadded his duster, squinted along the gleaming bonnet. ‘Thought not.’
No one was eager to meet his eye as he strode through the yard and into the office. As he set eyes on his daughter, he could see why.
She was sitting in his chair with her knee-high Doc Martens propped defiantly upon his desk. Her clothes, black to a stitch, could only have come from some charity shop, and her hair, shoulder-length and gleaming chestnut the last time he had seen her, had been cropped and dyed the kind of black from which no light escaped. Her face,
