into a chignon that shone like a sheet of black glass. The delicate beauty of her face had made her stand out from all the others—to say nothing of her calm composure.
She’d been quietly reading one of the cookery books he’d deliberately left on the table, her expression rapt. All the others were restlessly flicking through magazines—fashion or cars, depending on their sex.
It hadn’t escaped his notice that he wasn’t the only one eyeing her fabulous legs, which were smooth and straight, tucked primly to one side and looking even longer than ever with the addition of high-heeled shoes. Several of the male applicants had been mesmerised too.
Vido bade an abrupt farewell to a hopeful chef whose CV was almost as fanciful as a science fiction novel. Disappointingly, no one had lived up to his high expectations and only Anna remained to be seen. A wasted day, then.
His stomach clenched as he buzzed on the intercom. ‘Next one, Steve.’ The tightness in his chest intensified and he wondered wryly if his digestion would cope with the stress.
Thirty seconds max to pull himself together. His gaze drifted to the picture of his late mother on his desk. He deliberately made himself remember her shame and horror when she’d learned he’d been branded a thief. His mind went back to that terrible moment when he’d walked the length of the factory floor from Willoughby’s office, meeting a wall of hatred from the employees. Their curses had rained down on him. Then they’d spat in his face and flung paint at him for attempting to rob them of their hard-earned savings. It was then that he’d sworn to take his revenge on the Willoughbys one day and to redeem his honour.
To his relief, he found that his hunger for Anna had subsided. He was himself again; the tireless, driven businessman reputedly with a heart of gold beneath the grim exterior, who had forged a successful team in which even the most modestly paid employee had an equal input.
But there would be no chef to join that happy gang today. He let out an irritable sigh.
Not one of the applicants would have fitted into the tightly knit group. That meant further advertising—and in the meantime they’d have to exist on bought-in meals, when he was longing for home cooking. He scowled in frustration.
Anna waited, fidgeting now in the empty room. She had felt more and more nervous as a cheerful, casually dressed young man had collected her fellow applicants. One by one they had left, never to return, till she was the only one remaining.
She and a couple of others waiting to be interviewed had been given a sandwich lunch—from the local pub—and strawberries that were probably from the garden. During the long wait she’d read a marvellous cookery book from cover to cover and put it down with a sigh of regret, her head teeming with ideas.
All she could do now was to surreptitiously admire the redecorated, refurbished drawing room. In a palette of cool beiges and white, with occasional splashes of eau-de-Nil and turquoise, the room gave off an air of understated luxury and comfort, the fabrics oozing sensuality.
It was wonderful to be back in the house. Her heart had lifted with joy the moment she’d walked in the door to see that the interior had been transformed.
Here in this room, heavily draped curtains pooled on the thick carpet and framed the floor-to-ceiling windows. The elegant period furniture was of the highest quality, the satiny wood inviting her touch.
Flowers from the garden burst in exuberant displays from stylish vases, their perfumes wafting across the room with a heady fragrance. She loved it. The new owners had enviable taste—
‘Miss Willoughby?’
This was it. Heart fluttering in time with the butterflies in her stomach, she jumped up and followed the young man who took her to the panelled hall.
‘I’m Steve. General dogsbody,’ he said with a friendly grin.
‘Anna. Pizza cook in Stratford and ditto,’ she ventured with an answering smile.
‘Welcome to our paradise on earth,’ he said with genuine enthusiasm. ‘It’s a great place to be. And good luck.’
‘Thanks, I need it,’ she said gratefully, comforted a little by Steve’s glowing assessment of the company.
This was so important to her. A two-bedroomed apartment came with the job, which would allow her to live in comfort with her grandfather. And he’d been touchingly moist-eyed to think that he might walk in his beloved gardens again. She desperately wanted the job for his sake.
It was important to Peter, too. Her fiancé had spent ages coaching her in high-powered interview techniques. According to him, Solutions Inc was the troubleshooting company to be with. It had a fantastic reputation in business and employee relations and Peter was mad keen for her to work for them.
It would, he’d said, give him a better chance to get on their pay roll himself, an ambition he’d harboured ever since the company had hit the London scene. And for her, of course, it would be a high-profile job with money to match, one she’d dreamed of for years.
‘Don’t be nervous,’ said the young man sympathetically, pausing in the hall.
‘Help! Does it show that much?’ she asked in panic.
‘It’s the whites of your eyes that’s the give-away,’ he teased and she found a shaky grin. ‘Take deep breaths.’ Steve waited, seeming to be in no hurry. ‘Better?’
She nodded and said as they strolled on, ‘Marginally! I’m no longer frantic. Just Richter scale four on the earthquake gauge. My hands are shaking enough to demolish an entire building all on their own. I want this job very badly, you see.’
He laughed in delight. ‘Good for you! Hope you get it. Here we are.’
They stopped outside her grandfather’s old study, where Steve knocked, and pushed open the door for her. It was an odd feeling to be here again, in an entirely different capacity. Heiress to employee in one bound, she thought, her smile rueful now.
‘That’s it. Smile away. Mr Pascali likes us to be happy,’ Steve confided.
She blinked at the young man, wondering if she’d heard him properly. It felt as if she’d been dropped down an elevator shaft in a twenty-storey building.
‘Pascali?’ she whispered, white-faced, wondering if she’d ever get her stomach back to where it belonged.
‘Sure,’ he whispered back. ‘Half-Italian. Comes from Milan. But calm down. He’s great. Won’t bite, honest. He doesn’t smile a lot and he’s tough and drives himself hard but he’s fair. And so long as we don’t throw “sickies”, he’s great when we’re really ill. A star, through and through.’
That didn’t sound like Vido. A star? A matter of opinion, she thought tartly and would have turned tail and run, but by then the young man had pushed her inside and shut the door behind her.
Immediately her defences went up. Looking around the wonderfully light and airy study, its once half-empty wall shelves now filled with books, her wary gaze alighted on Vido where he sat behind a vast mahogany desk.
Without warning, her body moved into meltdown. He looked sensational. He was wearing a Wedgwood-blue waistcoat and co-ordinating shirt, its sleeves neatly rolled back to reveal muscular arms, and an expression that could only be described
