sense of discontent, James applied himself to answering the e-mails that required an immediate response. He worked through them, adding the printouts to the files, making notes of things for Lucy to check. She never slipped up on details, which was another thing he liked about her. He could count on Lucy getting things right. No excuses. Meticulous attention to detail.
He called her into his office, his instructions already clipped onto the files for her attention. He smiled over his own judgement of her as she walked in, wearing her all-purpose navy suit, smart, classic, timeless, typical of what a sensible career woman would buy. It would take her anywhere and never go out of fashion.
The skirt ended modestly, just above her knees. No micro-minis for Lucy. Yet what could be seen of her legs—nicely shaped calves and fine ankles—suggested the full length of them could form quite a distracting sight. Just as well they weren’t on show, James told himself, mentally approving her choice of apparel which neatly skimmed her cute little figure.
Being below average height, Lucy could never be called statuesque, but she was certainly built in pleasing proportion, and the way she twitched her pert bottom at times was definitely distracting. And tempting. James stifled these wayward thoughts and fixed his gaze on her face.
It was a finely boned face, not strikingly pretty, though if all the make-up tricks of a beautician were applied to it, James fancied it could look quite stunning. It, also, was perfectly proportioned, though the spectacles she wore gave it a prim look, which was accentuated by the way her hair was pulled back and pinned into a chignon from which no tendrils ever escaped.
The thought of unpinning what was obviously a wealth of soft brown hair presented a tantalising prospect. Would Lucy come undone in other ways? And if he took her spectacles off, what would he see in her eyes?
As it was, all he saw was a bright intelligence looking at him expectantly, nothing but business on her mind.
Piqued by her apparent indifference to what many other women considered his attractions, James found himself blurting out, ‘Is he an accountant?’ and could have instantly kicked himself for letting her get under his skin to this extent.
Her smooth creamy forehead creased as her eyebrows lifted above the colourless rims of her spectacles. ‘To whom are you referring?’
Instead of dismissing the slip—the only prudent thing to do at this point—James lost his head completely to a potent mixture of compelling curiosity and a rebellious rush of seriously displaced hormones.
‘Your partner for the ball tonight,’ he shot at her.
She looked incredulous. ‘You want to know if he’s an accountant?’
‘Is he?’
‘Do you need an accountant on hand for some reason?’
‘No, I don’t need one.’
Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Then why are you asking?’
Why, indeed? James gritted his teeth. He was getting no satisfaction here and was fast making himself look foolish. His mind zapped through possible escape routes.
‘Conversation always goes more smoothly if I’m prepared with a knowledge of people’s backgrounds. Your partner is the only one I won’t know at our table.’
She stared at him. Her chin took on a mulish tilt. Her shoulders visibly squared. In fact, her whole body took on a tense rigidity. Even her hands clenched. James had the wild notion she was barely stopping herself from stepping forward and hitting him. Which, of course was ridiculous! He’d made a reasonable statement. He did like to be prepared with background information before meeting anyone. She knew that.
Though he had to concede this was more personal than professional ground. Her private partner wasn’t exactly his business. Maybe it was simply the effect of the glass lenses but her eyes looked very glittery and he was definitely sensing some dagger-like thoughts being directed very sharply at him. But dammit all! He was going to meet the guy tonight so what was she getting so uptight about?
‘Why do you think my escort for the ball is an accountant, James?’ she bit out, her voice dripping with icicles.
‘Well, is he?’ he persisted, frustrated by her evasive tactics.
‘Generally speaking, people consider accountants boring,’ she stated, once again denying him an answer.
‘Not at all. Obviously they’re very intelligent, very clever, very astute,’ he put in quickly.
‘Boring,’ she repeated as though she was drilling a hole in his head. ‘Boringly worthy for Lucy Worthington.’
Uh-oh! James saw the red rag waving. He instantly gestured appeasement. ‘Now, Lucy, I have never thought you boring. You know that,’ he pressed earnestly. ‘And I can’t imagine you tolerating a boring man. You’re taking this the wrong way. I was merely wondering…’
‘What kind of man I’d bring.’
The intense focus of her eyes was like an electric drill, sparks flying as it kept tunneling into his brain to the true core of his question. James shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t like the sense of her seeing right through him. No doubt about it—he’d dug himself a hole and somehow he had to climb out of it with some fast face-saving.
‘It would be helpful if you’d give me his name, Lucy,’ he said reasonably, dropping the background issue which had stirred her into this totally unacceptable attack. ‘It would save any slip-up with introductions.’
Her mouth thinned. Her eyes glittered even more sharply. He sensed her fierce urge to cut him to ribbons and perversely enough—given the tricky situation he’d brought upon himself—he felt quite pumped up by the passion she was emitting. Nothing cool and collected about this Lucy. Clearly he’d tapped into the real flesh and blood woman beneath the navy suit and James found himself actually getting excited—aroused by the prospect of the inner Lucy emerging. If she did step forward to tangle with him physically…
‘Josh Rogan,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘You asked for his name,’ she tersely reminded him.
James gave himself a swift mental shake as deflation set in. The navy suit had won again, damn it! The Lucy he’d wanted to experience was in full retreat. Which was just as well, he told himself, quelling the madness of imagining her sprawled across his desk while he satisfied a rampant desire for the most intimate knowledge of her. It was absurd to have this sudden burst of sexual fantasies about his secretary when he had Buffy Tanner more than willing to satisfy his carnal needs.
‘Josh Rogan,’ he repeated, grateful that Lucy had her head on straight and was heeding what was appropriate in the work-place between boss and secretary. However, something about the name she’d given niggled him. ‘Isn’t there a lamb curry called Josh Rogan?’
He was almost sure of it, the suspicion instantly growing that Lucy was paying him back by giving a false name that would embarrass him when he used it tonight.
‘No,’ she said with a fine edge of scorn. ‘The curry is called Rogan Josh.’
‘Oh!’ He frowned. Was she playing him up or not?
Her
