somewhere,’ she suggested tactfully. ‘Perhaps…’
‘Oh, we haven’t arranged lunch. I’ve just got back from soaking up the sun on holiday.’ She almost purred as she trotted out, ‘We have such a lot to catch up on, I thought—’ She broke off to exclaim, ‘Ah!’ as they heard a door open and saw Joel stride into his office. ‘Joel! Darling!’ Arlene Enderby cried, and was in the other office, flinging her arms around him as if he was some long-lost lover.
Chesnie met the eyes of her employer as Arlene Enderby snuggled into his arms. Chesnie did not smile; neither did he. She got up and deliberately closed the door—and discovered she was inwardly shaking, experiencing the strangest sensation of not caring to see him with his arms around some woman. How odd! Why should it bother her at all?
It wasn’t in the least odd, she decided a moment later. This was a place of business and that was why she didn’t care for it. Everything that happened in this office should be purely professional. Which wasn’t what was happening next door. What was happening next door? It was very quiet in there. She half wished she had left the door open.
Chesnie was over the slight glitch in her equilibrium by the next day. She smiled and chatted lightly to Darren when he brought the post, and dealt pleasantly with the various heads of department—male ones—who seemed to find it necessary to stop by her desk for one reason or another. She had gradually got to know more and more of the people within the organisation, and it was good to be able to put a face to the various names that cropped up from time to time.
Though there was one new face she hadn’t seen before. The tall white-haired man poked his head round her office door at a quarter to one and came in. ‘Well, you’re a decided improvement on Barbara Thingy,’ he beamed, and, when Chesnie looked pleasantly enquiring, asked, ‘Is my son around?’
‘You’re Joel’s father?’
‘I know, I know. I don’t look old enough to have a son that age,’ quipped the man Chesnie thought must be at least seventy. ‘Magnus Davenport, at your service.’ He extended his right hand, and Chesnie immediately decided she liked him.
‘Chesnie Cosgrove,’ she introduced herself, shaking his hand. ‘I’m afraid your son is at a business lunch. Can I help you at all?’
‘Oh, dear, that’s a nuisance! I’ve driven all the way across the city hoping he’d take me to lunch,’ Davenport Senior replied with a sigh.
Chesnie thought for a moment. The matter was settled when it came to her that Joel’s father was only about ten years younger than Gramps. She wouldn’t hesitate to take her grandfather to lunch. ‘I’ll take you if you like?’ she offered.
‘I thought you’d never ask!’ he beamed.
Over lunch she discovered Magnus Davenport was a bit of a rascal. He insisted that she call him by his first name, but as he chatted away freely, about everything and everyone, she found that as well as being an outrageous gossip he was also a bit of a flirt—but quite harmless.
He openly told her that his wife, Joel’s mother, had thrown him out and divorced him years ago. ‘Said I was shiftless. Can you believe that? And that she’d had enough.’ Chesnie was on the point of feeling sorry for him when all of a sudden he laughed. ‘D’you know, I can’t really blame her? I never did hold down a job for long. Come to think of it, one of the happiest days I’ve had was when I retired.’
Chesnie had to laugh too; he had a sort of infectious quality about him. ‘I must think about getting back,’ she hinted, when he seemed inclined to linger over his coffee.
‘I’m going to the races tomorrow. Fancy coming with me?’ he asked.
She smiled and declined, and knew she was going to be late when Magnus Davenport drove her back to the Yeatman Trading building. She was not unduly alarmed that it was nearer half past two than two o’clock when Magnus dropped her off. She had worked late many times, and would cheerfully work late tonight if she hadn’t finished her workload by five.
‘I won’t come in—give me a call if you change your mind about the races,’ he said, and handed her his card.
Chesnie was smiling as she bade him goodbye, but had work on her mind as she opened the door to her office. She noticed at once that the communicating door to her employer’s office was open and that Joel was back from his business lunch.
Courtesy demanded that she commented on her lateness. She crossed that carpet and was aware that Joel knew she had returned, even though she hadn’t noticed him look up.
Nor did he glance up then, when she stood to the side of his desk. For some reason it niggled her. She’d be blessed if she’d say a word till he acknowledged her presence.
Just as she was about to turn around and go back to her office, however, he carefully laid down his pen. Then his head came up. He leaned back in his chair, silently appraising her, from the top of her red-blonde hair, to her slender but curvy figure in the royal blue suit, and all the way down to her shoes. Then, while she was studying his firm jaw, noticing that his mouth was pretty terrific even without the semblance of a smile, he moved his glance swiftly upwards and his blue eyes met her stubborn green ones head on.
Good, she’d got his attention. He waited—waited for her to speak first—and she felt quite irritated about that too. But she had been at pains to adopt a cool front; she wasn’t about to let it slip now.
‘Your father called,’ she began evenly, pleasantly. ‘He was disappointed not to see you,’ she added. ‘We went to lunch,’ she informed him, when Davenport said nothing.
‘No doubt you were able to help him over his disappointment,’ he threw in sourly, and at that moment pugilistic tendencies awakened in Chesnie that she’d had no idea she possessed. To her amazement she felt a momentary desire to poke Davenport Junior in the eye with something sharp and painful. ‘Who paid?’ he asked abruptly, his tone toughening.
What was it with him? The nerve! ‘Your father was my guest,’ she answered primly.
‘He conned you into taking him to lunch, didn’t he?’
‘Not at all. I liked him,’ she began. ‘He—’
‘I’ll reimburse you!’ Joel Davenport cut in sharply—and her anger went soaring, and with it her cool image.
‘No, you won’t!’ she flared hotly, and saw him smile—every bit as if he really enjoyed fracturing the cool front she’d displayed this past six weeks.
He shrugged. ‘So I won’t,’ he agreed, his tone all at once silky, and picked up his pen.
Chesnie went swiftly back to her own office. She felt then that she hated him. He’d done that on purpose—made her forget her poise for a moment. She didn’t want her front fractured; it made her feel vulnerable. She did not care for the feeling.
She slammed into her work and wanted nothing to do with him. This was what happened when you let personalities in on the scene. Meeting his father, liking him, laughing with him, had put a severe dent in the Chesnie Cosgrove she preferred to show the world. It seemed as if one Davenport had softened her up for another. Well, she wasn’t having it.
By four that afternoon her cool exterior was firmly back in place. At four-fifteen Larry Jenkins from Accounts came into her office with a query that
