man. He would merely look down his nose at her and not give an inch.
‘He didn't need the money for himself—or me for that matter. I have no need of money.'
Joel looked at her elegant summer dress, her sheer tights and the well fitting leather shoes. His eyes moved slowly back to her face, and once again he was struck by her beauty. ‘I can see that. Do you have yourself a rich middle-aged protector who tries to live through your youth?’ he said this with a sneer, and Farrah flinched at his contempt.
Two angry spots of colour appeared on her creamy cheeks and suddenly she looked very youthful, her eyes wide and distressed. ‘I don't have a rich protector, Mr Falcone,’ she told him stiffly. ‘You just happen to pay well.'
‘I do?’ For once his bland expression deserted him. ‘Do you work for me?'
‘In Angie Preston's department,’ she supplied unwillingly, the last thing she or her father needed was for her to lose her job too. At the moment she was supporting both of them, although how long she could continue to do so she wasn't sure. The Falcone newspaper and magazine organisation did pay well as she had said, but certainly not enough to support two people.
‘The problem page!’ he said with disgust. ‘And how long have you been with the firm?'
‘Three years now, ever since I left school.'
‘School?’ Joel echoed sharply. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.
Farrah hesitated. She had deliberately dressed to look older for this appointment today, although with these baby waves that was quite difficult. And now she had ruined it all with a slip of the tongue. ‘Nineteen,’ she supplied miserably.
Joel's eyes narrowed even more. ‘And what does a child like you hope to achieve by coming here to see me? Your father is an embezzler and must pay the penalty for such a crime.'
‘Oh, but I'll—I'll do anything to save him from going to prison,’ her eyes pleaded with him. ‘Anything!'
‘Don't you think that's rather a rash statement to make, Miss Halliday?’ he said coldly. ‘You don't know what manner of man I am. I could ask anything whatsoever of you and you would be compelled to comply.'
‘Oh, but I—you wouldn't—–’ She blushed fiery red.
‘You're right, I wouldn't.’ His lips curled with distaste. ‘At thirty-seven I'm nearly as old as your own father. I haven't taken to seducing babes, no matter how charmingly they offer themselves to me. Does your father know what you're doing?'
‘He knows I've come to see you, yes.'
‘Why couldn't he come himself?'
‘He isn't well,’ Farrah replied resentfully. ‘He couldn't go to prison, Mr Falcone, it would kill him. Please don't prosecute him!'
Joel began to look bored. ‘The prosecution of your father is not my concern. I have security people to deal with things like that.'
‘Please don't be so cruel, Mr Falcone. My father is a sick man, and this worry isn't helping him. He stole that money for a good reason, I promise you that. I'll pay it all back, really I will.'
He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Twenty-five thousand pounds! My dear girl, you may only be nineteen, but it would take you nearly a lifetime to pay me back on the salary you earn.'
‘I don't intend to be working on the problem page the rest of my working life. I want to be a proper journalist.'
‘It would still take you years.’ He became thoughtful, his dark face almost satanic in its intensity. He might be thirty-seven years of age, but he was certainly the most excitingly handsome man Farrah had ever seen. He was like a sleepy feline, sleek and beautiful, and just as dangerous. She watched him as the silence continued, wondering what he was thinking behind that enigmatic expression.
‘You could just be the answer to my problem,’ he spoke softly, so softly she could hardly hear him. Joel looked at her critically. ‘A little young perhaps, but that can't be helped. At least you're beautiful.'
‘What are you talking about, Mr Falcone?'
He smiled slightly, but it was a smile without humour. ‘Just an idea I have. You said you would do anything—I hope you meant that. Go now, I have to think this over.'
‘But I—I—–When will I know?'
‘When I damn well choose to tell you,’ he snapped. ‘I'll call you in the department tomorrow. I take it you will be in to work tomorrow?'
‘Yes, but I—–’ She could just imagine the girls’ astonishment and curiosity if she were summoned up to the fifteenth floor to see the owner, Joel Falcone. She was only a very junior member of staff while this man was the owner of newspapers and magazines both in England and abroad, and was never seen by his minions. None of the girls in her office knew anything of her father's embezzling—she cringed at the word, but in truth there was no other description more fitting—they all assumed he was ill. How could she explain the reason for Joel Falcone's summons without involving her father?
Blue eyes narrowed to icy slits. ‘I care nothing for your embarrassment,’ he guessed the reason for her silence correctly. ‘Just make sure you come when you're called.'
Farrah could do nothing else but accept his words as a dismissal, he was obviously a man of forceful character who didn't expect his words to be questioned. Miserably she made her way home. She had thought she would be able to give her father some good news when she returned, but she was to be disappointed, and so, unfortunately, was he. The interview hadn't yet been concluded.
Her father looked up expectantly as she quietly entered their flat, his green eyes so like her own looking at her avidly, almost eagerly, and what he read in her face made his shoulders droop unhappily. Farrah could cheerfully have hit Joel Falcone's arrogant face at that moment for causing her father this extra pain.
‘No luck, I see,’ said her father wearily.
She sat down beside him on the sofa, taking his painfully thin hand into her own, trying to give him some of the warmth she had felt from the blazing sun outside. She smiled at him reassuringly. ‘It will be all right, Daddy, really it will.'
‘I bet the arrogant devil wouldn't even let you through the door when he realised who you were.'
Farrah couldn't bear the look of defeat on her father's face, a man who had once been a tall proud man, now but a shrivelled shell of himself. ‘You're wrong, Daddy, I did see him. We talked for about ten minutes or so.'
‘But you didn't get him to stop prosecution did you?'
‘Well no, but I—–'
‘Typical Italian is Joel Falcone,’ mumbled her father. ‘Not an ounce of forgiveness in their body. Just pure revenge.'
Farrah attempted a light laugh, but her father's words had sent an icy shiver down her back. ‘He isn't pure Italian, Daddy—well, not really. He's an Italian-American, he's probably never even been to Italy.'
‘Of course he has, Farrah, he has a branch of Falcone's over there. So he wouldn't agree to drop the charges,’ he repeated.
‘I
