and although Jaime was grateful that for once she seemed to have come out best in the argument, her thoughts were too absorbed with the conversation she had had with Nicola di Vaggio to enjoy it. She couldn’t imagine what could have gone wrong with Nicola’s marriage to warrant that strange invitation, and while her natural curiosity was aroused, so too was a troubled sense of foreboding. They had not corresponded, they had not kept in touch after Nicola’s precipitate marriage to the wealthy Italian count, whose title she now seemed to have abandoned. Why then should Nicola contact her now, when the most logical people she should confide in were her own mother and father?
In her office, Jaime seated herself at her desk and observed the neat stack of letters Diane had left for her perusal. But she didn’t examine the letters. She didn’t even look at them. Instead, she surveyed the room in which she was sitting, appreciating anew the undiminishing feeling of satisfaction it gave her.
It was a beautiful office, light and spacious, with wide, double-glazed windows overlooking the muted roar of London’s busy streets twenty floors below. The walls were panelled in mahogany, reaching up to a high moulded ceiling that added to the room’s airiness, and the floor was snugly fitted with a dark red carpet. There was a light oak desk, several comfortable leather armchairs, a shelf of books illustrating the different kinds of cosmetics used throughout the ages, and an exquisitely carved cabinet, which served both as an ornament and as a handy container for the refrigerated cupboard that held refreshments for visitors. It was the office of someone of importance, an executive, at least, and Jaime never ceased to marvel at her own good fortune in owning it.
She sighed now, leaning back in her seat and allowing her shoulders to rest against the cool dark leather. But she kept her hands on the desk, as if afraid it might suddenly disappear in this sudden, and unwelcome, rush of memory. Against the cloth, the silvery brilliance of her hair was etched in stark relief, the plain gold earrings that hung from her lobes her only ornamentation. Her suit, a simple design in dark green linen, accentuated the tall slender lines of her figure, but even its severe cut could not disguise the undoubted proof of her femininity. In spite of her determination to compete on equal terms in a man’s world, she was still essentially female, and it was that awareness now that brought the troubled crease to her brow. What was Nicola up to? Why had she brought her problems to Jaime? And more importantly, how was Jaime going to get out of that unwanted invitation?
A tap at her door brought her head up with a start, and she smiled with some relief when she met her secretary’s anxious eyes.
‘I’m going to lunch now, Miss Forster,’ Diane said diffidently. ‘Is there anything I can get you before I leave?’
‘Oh—no, thank you, Diane.’ Jaime shook her head. ‘I’ll just have a sandwich here.’ Her nail nudged the pile of untouched mail. ‘I’ll get around to some of these later.’
‘Very well, Miss Forster.’ Diane was only nineteen and still slightly in awe of her new boss. ‘There’s nothing urgent. Oh—but Mr Longman called. He said to tell you, he’d be in to the office tomorrow morning.’
‘Fine.’ Jaime swung her chair back and forth in a semi-circular motion. ‘I guess I can handle anything that comes up. You go and get your lunch, Diane. I may need you to work over this evening.’
‘This evening?’ Consternation showed in the girl’s face, and Jaime moved forward in the chair to rest her elbows on the desk.
‘You’ve got a problem?’
‘I’ve got a date,’ admitted Diane reluctantly. ‘But I could break it …’
‘You don’t want to, is that it?’ Jaime gave her an understanding look. ‘Okay, Diane, you keep your date. If necessary, you can work over lunch tomorrow, hmm?’
‘Oh, thanks, Miss Forster!’ Diane’s gratitude was fervent. ‘See you later, then.’
‘Later,’ agreed Jaime, nodding her head, and as Diane left the room, she rose to her feet to walk across to the window.
It seemed a long time since she had been like Diane, she reflected ruefully, and then grimaced. It was a long time—almost eight years, to be exact. She had been eighteen when she started to work for Helena Holt Cosmetics, but unlike Diane, she had made her work the whole centre of her existence.
From the very first day, she had been ambitious. Before that—from the time she and her mother had been struggling to keep their heads above water and a cousin of her mother’s had taken pity on her and sent her to a decent school, she had been determined to make a success of her life. Her parents had divorced when she was very young, and as soon as Jaime was off her hands, her mother had retired to the country, to become companion to some elderly spinster. Jaime hadn’t seen her father for years, not since she was at junior school, and the years spent at an exclusive girls’ boarding school had taught her to be self-sufficient.
It had not always been easy. When she first started work, she had to live in dingy rooms and bedsitters, walking to work across town, and eating in cheap snack bars. Every spare penny she had, she had saved, and with it she had paid for an evening course at a commercial college, where she could supplement her knowledge of shorthand and typing with other skills like accountancy and economics. She had been an apt pupil, and when a vacancy had occurred in the progress office, she had applied. Much to the chagrin of some of the male applicants, she was successful, and she left the typing pool for the greener fields of advertising and finance. And yet, even then, she had not been content …
Turning from the window now, Jaime wondered, not for the first time, how much of her success was due to the way she looked. Certainly, her boss in the progress office, Clifford Jacobs, had found her very attractive—so much so that Jaime had had to fend off the accusations of his wife when she came storming into the office one evening to find Jaime and her husband closeted in his office discussing a new promotion. Not that there had been anything for Rebecca Jacobs to get so uptight about. Jaime wasn’t interested in men, she wasn’t interested in sexual relationships; and although her contemporaries might find that hard to believe from her appearance, they soon discovered her reputation was not misplaced. Only one man had succeeded in exploiting the weaknesses she had always subdued, and she had dealt with him as ruthlessly as her father had dealt with her mother. No man was going to control her. No man was going to make her dependent on him, financially or emotionally. There was only one way she knew for a woman to make her own way in the world, and that was by remaining free and unattached—and capable of providing herself with the kind of lifestyle men set so much store by.
It was late when she got home that evening, later than she had expected, due to Diane’s early departure, and Mrs Purdom met her at the door with the news that ‘that woman’ had called again.
Jaime sighed, glancing at her watch to discover it was almost a quarter to seven, and nodded. ‘I know, Mrs Purdom,’ she said, surprising the elderly housekeeper with this knowledge. ‘She called me at work today. It’s someone I used to—go to school with.’
‘Well, really!’ Mrs Purdom was not appeased, and as she helped Jaime off with her jacket she showed her disapproval. ‘Why couldn’t she tell me who she was, instead of refusing to give her name? If you’re old friends …’
‘She doesn’t want her husband to know she’s been calling me,’ replied Jaime drily, smiling at Mrs Purdom’s disbelieving expression. ‘It’s true. Wasn’t there ever a time when you kept something from your husband, Mrs Purdom? Didn’t you have any secrets you wanted to hide?’
‘Not that I can think of,’ retorted Mrs Purdom with indignation, and Jaime kicked off her shoes as she walked into her living room.
‘Well,
