‘That’s all right,’ Emma smiled automatically. ‘I have another appointment anyway.’
Outside the television building she debated whether or not to go and ring Robert, and then glancing at her watch decided not to. He would be involved in preparations for the evening news programme now, and besides her news would wait until she got home. She wanted to savour it, to relish the knowledge that she had succeeded, but for some reason she could not.
It must be because she was so tensed up about her interview with Drake Harwood, she decided, looking round for a taxi. Once that was behind her then she could relax and congratulate herself. As she found one and waited for it to stop she recalled the man in the corridor and her mouth compressed.
Who on earth was he? Someone quite important. She hadn’t missed the vaguely subservient response of her companion to his greeting. She frowned as she stepped into her taxi. Why waste time thinking about a man she was hardly likely to see again; he wasn’t the first man who had irritated her with his attitude to her sex and he wouldn’t be the last.
Not the first, but certainly the most blatant. Her skin tingled with renewed impotent rage as she recalled the mockery in his jade eyes. He had known exactly how furious she was and he had enjoyed her fury. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen such an aggressively sexual male. Not her type at all, she thought disdainfully, giving the driver the address of the modest restaurant where she had decided to have lunch.
She was quite content to lunch alone. She had a lot to think about and a lot to plan. She would have to find somewhere to live; sharing at first perhaps, and then later, she could find her own place. She did some quick sums on the back of an old envelope. She would need new clothes, but hopefully not too many. She had quite a good wardrobe, preferring to buy classic rather than fashion clothes and suspected that these would be in keeping with the image she would be expected to project. Her full mouth compressed slightly as she remembered what she had been told. Why was it perfectly acceptable for a man to possess a murky past but not for a woman? Luckily there was nothing at all in her past or present that could be used by the press. Her thoughts flashed to the man in the corridor. Undoubtedly the same could not be said for him. Her mouth curved in a cynical smile. Stop thinking about him, she chided herself eating the seafood salad she had ordered.
She took her time over her lunch, forcing down the jittery nerves clamouring in her stomach. She was more tense over this coming interview than she had been over this morning’s. Damn Camilla, she thought exasperatedly, not for the first time. What on earth had possessed her to take the man’s car in the first place, never mind crashing it?
She grimaced faintly to herself. She could just imagine her younger sister’s reaction on wakening to find herself in a strange bed. Mrs T. held very strong views on what she considered to be the lack of morals among the younger generation. In time David would be very like his mother; humourless and rigorously strait-laced. Cynically she wondered if Camilla was telling her the entire truth. Her sister had had a positive phalanx of boyfriends before she became engaged to David. She enjoyed flirting with and teasing the male sex and was nowhere near as innocent as her blonde delicacy implied. She had admitted that Drake Harwood had shown an interest in her. On the other hand it could be perfectly feasible that she had simply had too much to drink and that he had dumped her in a spare bedroom to sleep it off. It all depended. Whatever the case he certainly didn’t appear to be inclined to treat Camilla with indulgence now. His solicitor’s letter had been starkly uncompromising. Finishing her coffee and settling her bill Emma stood up, and glanced at her watch. She had half an hour before her appointment with him … it was time to go.
The block of offices her taxi driver took her to was everything one would expect for a going-places entrepreneur. Brashly new, the impressive foyer was designed to intimidate and impress. The receptionist looked as though she had just stepped out of Vogue, and eyed Emma unresponsively as she walked towards her.
At the sound of Drake Harwood’s name she perked up a little. No doubt she was a far cry from the women normally asking to see him Emma reflected dourly. He had been mentioned in the gossip columns quite a lot recently, and she had read that he was currently escorting one of the ‘models’ featured in his newly acquired magazine. Although she had no deep-rooted objection to members of her sex making a living from capitalising on whatever they considered their most saleable assets to be, she viewed the men who made their living selling the female form both in the flesh and on celluloid with considerable distaste. It was true that Drake Harwood had merely gained control of his girlie magazine as part of a larger package, but he had been quick to accept the challenge thrown down by the rival magazine and to boast that he would soon boost its ailing circulation.
Emma didn’t doubt that most of the women who posed for such magazines did so with their eyes open—witness Fiona’s determined attempts to catch Drake Harwood’s attention—but for herself … Only last summer Camilla had commented on what she called her ‘prudishness’ when she had refused to go topless during their holiday in France. ‘Everyone does …’ had been her younger sister’s critical comment. Maybe, but Emma had never been one to follow the general herd. Her own body was something she rarely thought about. Camilla had laughed when she insisted on wearing a swimsuit, but her skin was fair and burned easily.
‘Mr Harwood will see you now. Go up in the far lift,’ the receptionist directed in bored accents. Reminding herself that she was twenty-six years old and had just been offered the sort of job which ought to boost anyone’s self-confidence, Emma stepped into the lift and pressed the single button, hoping that the fluttering in her stomach was as a result of the upward surge of the lift rather than her own nervousness.
A secretary as elegant as the girl in the foyer was waiting for her; blonde hair immaculately in place.
‘This way please.’ She knocked briefly on a door and then held it open.
The room Emma walked into was enormous, with a panoramic view over the rooftops of London. The decor was almost austere; the rosewood desk huge; the Beber carpet underfoot a masculine blend of russets and browns.
‘Miss Court …’ He took advantage of her momentary consternation to ask mockingly, ‘I take it you did get the job? I shall look forward to seeing you on screen when the new programme goes out.’
She had recognised him instantly of course, but it had taken her several seconds to assimilate the fact that the man in the corridor of the television building and Drake Harwood were one and the same. Remembering his open sexual inspection of her, she felt her face burning with a mixture of tension and anger. He had obviously known then who she was. Tension sharpened her instincts. How had he known about the job though? She recalled the muted deference in her companion’s manner towards him and anxiety feathered along her nerves. If he wanted her to comment on the coincidence; on the fact that he knew about her new job, he was going to be disappointed. Exciting Fiona had called him, according to Camilla, and she could understand why. If ever a man exuded sexuality it was this one, she thought clinically. His hair was thick and dark, almost unruly as it grew low into his nape. Even seated he gave the impression of height and breadth. His suit was expensively tailored, discreetly dark and Saville Row, and yet it left an unmistakable impression of solid muscle and bone; a legacy from his early days working on building sites, she decided. His skin was olive toned and tanned, the bones shaping his face arrogantly masculine. Even without those green eyes she would have been wary of him. He was a man whose every movement revealed a raw pleasure in his masculinity; a man who would never consider a woman to be his equal, Emma thought drily.
‘Like what you see?’ His words left her in no doubt that he was aware of her scrutiny. Emma fought down the urge to snap back that she disliked everything about him, and said instead, ‘It’s always interesting to come face to face with the people one reads about in the press.’
