put down the chopping knife, turned down the radio and headed for the door with her heart leaping into her throat.
Who knocked like that? Police or drunks came to mind. She peered out of the hall’s narrow windowpane and gasped in surprise when she saw who it was.
She had her answer. Cormac Douglas knocked like that.
What on earth was he doing here? She’d never seen him outside the office…or the tabloid newspapers.
Taking a deep breath, she ran a hand over her hair, which tumbled loosely over her shoulders, and opened the door.
‘Mr Douglas?’ She eyed him uncertainly, for he looked as grim as ever, his forehead drawn into a frown, his eyebrows an unyielding scowl. He was still a handsome man, she acknowledged, as she had since the first day he’d hired her. Tall, his chocolate-brown hair misted with rain, clear hazel eyes glinting with impatience, his cheekbones high and chiselled, slashed with colour.
‘I need to speak with you. May I come in?’
She nodded, conscious suddenly of her own mussed hair, the jeans and white T-shirt she’d changed into. She touched her cheek and realised a dab of tomato sauce had smeared there.
‘Yes, of course.’
The hall of her parents’ house was long, narrow and high, yet Cormac seemed to fill the gloomy space. He glanced around, and Lizzie knew he was taking in the old, shabby furnishings.
Just then she heard a sizzling sound from the kitchen and, with a murmured excuse, hurried to it.
The tomato sauce was bubbling ominously on the stove and she lowered the gas flame before turning around.
She gave a little gasp of surprise; Cormac stood in the doorway, taking in the pathetic little scene in one cursory sweep of his contemptuous gaze.
Lizzie found herself flushing. She could just imagine what Cormac was thinking. Thursday night and she was home alone, making a sad little meal for one, the radio her only company.
‘I’m sorry. I was just making some dinner,’ she explained stiltedly. Jazz music played tinnily from the radio and she snapped it off. ‘Do you…do you want some?’
Cormac simply stared, raising one eyebrow in silent, scornful disbelief. Lizzie bit her lip, flushing again. Of course he must already have dinner arrangements at some chic restaurant, a far cry from here. From her.
According to the tabloids—as well as the voicemail messages that were occasionally left on the office machine—she knew he was with a different woman nearly every time he was seen, usually at a nightclub or high-class restaurant.
So why was he with her tonight? Here?
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, not really sure why she was apologising. ‘Anyway…may I take your coat?’
Cormac was still looking at her, sizing her up in a way she wasn’t used to. Lizzie tried not to fidget. He’d never really looked at her before, she realised. She was simply someone to bring papers, answer telephones. Now he was watching her, eyes narrowed, seeming as if he was deciding whether she passed or failed.
Passed or failed what?
His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and the shoulders of his overcoat were damp, his hair mussed from the rain.
‘All right.’ He shrugged his coat off and handed it to her. ‘Put that away and then I need to talk to you.’
Lizzie nodded stiffly, feeling like a maid in her own home. She went to hang his coat in the hall. A faint tang of cedar and soap wafted from it and Lizzie felt a strange tingling in her chest, a tightening she didn’t really like or understand.
She didn’t know this man, she realised. At all. And she had no idea what he was doing here. What could he possibly want to talk about?
Back in the kitchen, Cormac stood in the same place. He was completely still yet he radiated energy, impatience.
His hard hazel gaze snapped back to her with a cold, precise determination as soon as she entered the kitchen.
‘I forgot to mention some salient details regarding our trip.’ He paused, raking his fingers through his damp hair. ‘I’m travelling to Sint Rimbert to court an important commission. Jan Hassell, who owns most of the island, has finally decided to build a luxury resort. It’s important to him, of course, that the architect he chooses presents the right…appearance.’ He paused, looking at her as if he expected a reply, but Lizzie was baffled.
‘Yes, I see,’ she said after a moment, although she didn’t really.
Cormac let out an impatient breath. ‘Do you? Then perhaps you realise that I can’t have a secretary who gets her clothes from the rag basket.’
Colour surged into Lizzie’s face. It was galling to realise that he didn’t think she possessed the proper clothes for such a trip. Even worse was the realisation that undoubtedly she didn’t. She swallowed. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what I need to bring,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster.
Cormac shook his head. ‘I can guarantee, sweetheart, that you don’t have it.’
Lizzie lifted her chin. He’d never called her sweetheart before, and she didn’t like the casual, callous endearment. ‘If I’m not stylish enough for you,’ she said shortly, ‘there are other secretaries from the Edinburgh office who could oblige you.’
‘I’m sure there are,’ Cormac returned, ‘but I want you.’
He spoke flatly, yet Lizzie felt a frisson of awareness, excitement, at his words. I want you.
Because of your typing speed, idiot, she told herself. And obviously not her style or appearance. Anyway, she reminded herself, the last thing she wanted was a man like Cormac Douglas to turn his attention towards her. Working for him was difficult enough.
‘Well, then,’ she finally said, a brisk note entering her voice, ‘I’ll do my best to look smart. Was there anything else you needed to discuss with me, Mr Douglas?’
‘You should call me Cormac,’ he replied abruptly, and Lizzie simply stared.
‘Why?’ she asked after a moment, and he gave her a cool look which spoke volumes about what he thought of her audacity in questioning him.
‘Because I said so.’
‘Fine.’ She swallowed any indignation she felt. It was pointless. Cormac Douglas was her boss and he could do what he liked. Even in her own house. ‘Is that all?’ she finally got out in a voice of strangled politeness.
‘No.’ Cormac continued to stare at her, his gaze narrowed and uncomfortably assessing. On the stove the pot of tomato sauce bubbled resentfully.
After a moment he sighed impatiently and, without another word, he turned on his heel and headed for the stairs.
Lizzie’s mouth dropped open. ‘Just where do you think you’re going?’
‘Upstairs.’
She
