Nice, stable Martin, Abigail thought now. She was very fond of him and when she had accepted his marriage proposal one week ago, she had done so safe in the knowledge that he would be a good husband, someone on whom she could rely. They had only been seeing each other for a matter of six months, but she knew that she felt relaxed and comfortable with him and that was what love was about, she was certain. He had been such a pleasant change from the suave, deceitful Ellis with his promises and declarations which had lasted all of six weeks, until the girlfriend she never knew he had returned from her glamour trip round the world, bronzed, beautiful and ready to resume where she had left off. Oh, the declarations had certainly gone by the board then, she thought bitterly. Love? Marriage? He had looked at her white face with wide-eyed incredulity. ‘You must have misread the signals, sweetie.’ He had shaken his head sadly, ruefully, pained at the thought that he might have given her the wrong ideas.
Martin was far too decent a human being ever to play games like that. She frowned and felt that little niggling worry which she immediately swept to the back of her mind.
It was after four when Ross swept back into the office. He paused by her desk and she reeled off his telephone messages, then she said, glancing down at the typed letters, ‘By the way, you had a visitor. A woman by the name of Fiona St Paul. She said that you’d know who she was.’
She thought of the other woman, that chic elegance wrapped up in expensive designer clothes, every nail manicured, every strand of hair firmly in place, and she felt an uncustomary jolt of jealousy. How ridiculous, she thought, with an uneasy inward laugh.
‘What did she want?’ Ross asked, slinging his coat over the spare chair and shrugging out of his jacket.
‘She expected to find you here,’ Abigail said. ‘She was disappointed that you weren’t in.’
‘Get her on the phone for me, would you?’ he said by way of response. ‘She works at Sotheby’s.’ He strode through to his office and Abigail looked at his retreating back with dislike. He rarely involved her in anything to do with his women. She knew of their existence because of the theatre tickets she booked for two, the intimate meals she reserved in expensive restaurants, the flowers she occasionally ordered, but beyond that they mostly remained a mystery. Several she had met in passing, and from them she had deduced that he was attracted to physical perfection. Now she got Fiona on the phone with a certain amount of unwarranted resentment and, as they connected, she heard his voice down the line, warm, full of sexy charm.
He certainly can turn it on, she thought, replacing the receiver softly. Even when he stormed through the office, subjecting her to his evil moods, she could tell that underneath that terseness lay the sort of lazy charm that most women would find hard to resist.
Ellis Fitzmerton might have been a bitter pill, but he had served his purpose. He had immunised her against folly, and that was why she had excelled in this job. Ross Anderson could not distract her.
Janet arrived for her meeting five minutes early, and spent the time chatting to Abigail while nervously contemplating the door.
‘He won’t eat you,’ Abigail said, following the line of her gaze.
‘No,’ Janet agreed, ‘but he still scares me half to death most of the time.’ And what could Abigail say to that when she fully understood the line of thought?
‘At least,’ Ross said to her one hour later, after Janet had left his office and was safely on her way back to peace on the sixth floor, with her own easy-going marketing boss, ‘she came prepared this time.’ He was getting ready to go, slipping on his jacket, looking at her absentmindedly as he did so.
‘You terrify her,’ Abigail said bluntly, and he stopped what he was doing and looked at her, surprised.
‘Do I? Why?’
‘Why do you think? You’re unpredictable.’
His black brows met in a frown. ‘I’m not sure I like that description of myself.’ He sat on the edge of her desk and began rolling down his sleeves, buttoning them at the wrists. ‘I don’t terrify you,’ he observed.
‘I’m accustomed to you, perhaps.’
This was beginning to veer off their normal routine conversation and she felt suddenly awkward.
‘You’ve grown accustomed to my face?’ he murmured, sensing her mood with amusement. ‘Something like that?’
‘Something like that, I suppose,’ she replied, not looking at him, walking across to collect her coat from the stand in the corner of the room. She turned to find him staring at her, his dark eyes unreadable.
‘I suppose I’ve grown quite accustomed to yours as well,’ he murmured, making no move to leave so that she was forced to stand by him, hovering, her hands stuck into the pockets of her coat. ‘But that doesn’t mean that I know you any the better.’
She didn’t care for the way his eyes were boring into her and she certainly didn’t know what sort of response to make to that, so she remained where she was, silent.
When the silence eventually became unbearable, she said, in a burst of discomfort, ‘What play are you going to see tonight?’
‘Changing the subject?’ Ross asked, eyeing her. ‘Why are you so cagey about your personal life?’
‘I’m not cagey about my personal life,’ she said, horrified to find that her mouth was dry and her brain felt as though it was seizing up. She was used to dealing with him when he was in a filthy temper, so why was she feeling like this when he was being nice? Because, a little voice told her, nice is dangerous when it comes to a man like Ross Anderson.
‘No? Then how is it that you never let on that you were seeing a man? Not even in passing?’
‘Because…’ she stammered, going red.
‘Because it’s none of my business?’ He stood up and slipped on his jacket.
‘I never really gave it much thought,’ she said with an attempt to be casual. ‘Gosh, is that the time? I must get going.’
‘Dinner date?’
‘Something like that,’ she said and he bit out angrily,
‘There you go. Dodging a simple question, acting as though the minute you say anything revealing about yourself you’ll find yourself in the firing line.’
She shot him a placating smile which was supposed to remind him that she was, after all, just his personal assistant, and he gave her a long, sardonic stare. ‘Careful you don’t fall, Abby,’ he murmured, and she looked at him, bewildered. ‘You’re backtracking so quickly that you might just lose your balance.’
He moved towards the door and held it open to her.
‘Musical,’ he said succinctly into her ear. ‘A much safer topic, isn’t it? Fiona and I are going to see a musical in the West End and then we shall probably have dinner somewhere.’ He pressed the button on the lift and turned his attention back to her. ‘What about you? Where is your boyfriend taking you to dinner?’
Was it her imagination or was there laughter in his voice every time he mentioned Martin?
‘Actually,’ she offered with reluctance, ‘we’re having dinner at my place tonight.’ She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and then said, because he would find out sooner or later anyway, ‘It’s something of an engagement party, as a matter of fact. Just relatives and a few friends.’
Ross stared at her as though she had suddenly sprouted three heads and announced that she was from another planet.
‘Well,’ she said defensively, ‘I would have told you! It’s not some great secret. I just never thought that you’d be interested.’
The lift arrived and she stepped in with a feeling of relief. She had her head averted, but she was acutely aware that he was still staring at her. What right did he have to make her feel guilty simply because she happened to be a very private person, who preferred keeping things to herself? Nonetheless, she felt a slow flush creeping up her cheeks.
‘So you’re getting engaged to this Martin person,’ he mused. ‘You don’t seem to be overjoyed and excited at the prospect.’
The lift doors opened on to the ground floor and she stepped out. With some surprise she realised that she was perspiring slightly.
‘Of course I am,’ she said more hotly than his remark warranted. ‘I’m very excited about the whole thing.’
‘What’s he like?’
They were walking across the huge reception hall now, but not fast enough as far as she was concerned. Ross Anderson, she knew from experience, was the persistent sort. She had seen it in everything he did. He grappled with problems until they were sorted out to his satisfaction, and he could be ruthlessly single-minded in pursuing his targets. It was one of the reasons why his company, in times of recession, had continued to do well, to expand. Publishing was a volatile beast at the best of times. She knew, as everyone in the company did, that he had inherited an ailing firm from his father, and had then proceeded to drag it kicking and screaming into the twentieth century, until it was now one of the largest in the country, with branches operating throughout Europe. Quite simply, Ross Anderson had taken the company by the throat and had brought it to heel.
He hadn’t achieved that by being a sensitive flower. She eyed the approaching glass doors with zeal.