LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER TWO

      FOR a moment Max stood mesmerised by the smile. It did something to her mouth, something unexpectedly sexy so that for a moment he couldn’t quite take in what was happening, that she was sitting in front of his desk with a notebook poised ready for dictation.

      She was genuine?

      Still not quite believing it, Max crossed to the door and checked the hall. It was empty. ‘Harriet!’

      His housekeeper appeared from the direction of the kitchen. ‘Yes, Max?’

      ‘Did Jilly Prescott arrive alone?’

      ‘Yes. Were you expecting someone else? You didn’t say—’

      ‘And no one else has turned up in the last few minutes—my sister, for instance?’

      ‘Amanda?’ she asked. ‘Why? Are you expecting her? Will she be staying for lunch?’

      ‘No, but—’ She was looking at him a little oddly and, realising that he wasn’t making much sense, he shook his head. ‘No, I’m not expecting anyone. Just bring in some coffee, will you?’ He turned to Jilly. ‘You would like some coffee, wouldn’t you?’

      ‘Yes, please.’ She knew from experience that the chance of drinking it while it was hot was so small as to be incalculable, but her day had started long before dawn and even cold coffee would be welcome. She glanced at the ornate ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after eleven. She hoped her stomach wouldn’t rumble before she could eat the one remaining chocolate bar in her bag.

      Max, returning to his office, noticed her suitcase, her jacket flung over the back of a chair. Genuine. Maybe. They would see.

      He returned to his desk, propped his cane against it and lowered himself into his chair before picking up a sheaf of notes.

      Across his desk, up close, Jilly realised that he was younger than she had originally thought. The greying temples, the pared-down bony features, had at first glance suggested he was nearing forty, but now she could see that he was younger than that—quite how much younger it was difficult to tell. Had he been ill? Or had it been an accident that had whittled the weight from him and left him walking with a cane? She didn’t have time to give the matter any thought before he began dictating.

      Max began dictating slowly, but he realised after a few minutes that she was keeping up with him without any difficulty—actually appeared to be waiting for him. ‘Will you read that back, Jilly?’ he asked. He still wasn’t convinced of her probity and if this was some silly game his sister was playing with him he would prefer to know sooner, rather than later.

      She read back everything he had dictated without hesitation, then said, ‘You can go faster if you like. I take a hundred and sixty words a minute.’

      He stared at her for a moment. ‘Really?’

      Jilly heard the disbelief in his voice. Didn’t he trust his own sister? ‘Honest,’ she said. And just to emphasise the point she slowly drew a cross over her heart.

      Max swallowed, hard. In another woman that gesture would have been blatantly sexual, but he had already been so far off right about this girl that he didn’t know what to think. ‘Amazing,’ he muttered, and he wasn’t entirely certain whether it was her shorthand speed or the girl herself who had provoked the word. But there had to be a drawback. ‘Can you type?’ he asked, suddenly suspicious.

      ‘There wouldn’t be much point if I couldn’t,’ she replied simply. Her face was solemn but a pair of perplexed brown eyes were regarding him through those large spectacle frames. She was puzzled at his caution and why wouldn’t she be? ‘Would there?’ she pressed.

      ‘I suppose not,’ he said, disconcerted to discover that he wanted to apologise for doubting her. He rejected the idea out of hand—she still had to prove herself. Instead he continued dictating a complicated report, quite steadily at first, then faster, and finally at a speed that should have left her begging for mercy, that if he was honest with himself he intended should have her begging for mercy. She kept pace without apparent effort, her small hand flying over her notepad without the slightest hesitation even when he relayed long strings of calculations or foreign names, and he found himself going ever faster in an effort to have her call a halt. She didn’t.

      ‘That’s it for now,’ he said irritably. Which was ridiculous. He’d asked for someone efficient and apparently that was exactly what he’d got. The fact that she had the impudence to poke a little fun at him was something he could live with. At least she didn’t fidget with her hair; she seemed blissfully unaware that it was threatening to descend untidily about her ears. ‘How long will it take you to type that?’

      ‘That depends on the software installed on your computer.’ He told her what it was. ‘No problem, I’ve used that before.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I should be done by three.’

      Now she was just being ridiculous. ‘I’d rather have it accurate than rushed,’ he said.

      Jilly didn’t bother to argue. ‘Five past three, then,’ she said, taking off her spectacles and rising to her feet. She paused in the doorway and looked back at him. ‘I’ll use the extra five minutes to make a cup of tea. The coffee has gone cold.’ Max stared at her. Garland Girls didn’t make tea. But then Jilly Prescott clearly wasn’t a Garland Girl. Not by a country mile. Where on earth had his sister found her? ‘I’ll make one for you too, if you like,’ she offered when he didn’t move.

      ‘No,’ he began. Then, ‘No, thank you. That won’t be necessary. And if you ask Harriet, my housekeeper, she’ll make you whatever you want.’ Then as the clock on the mantelpiece began to chime the hour he continued, ‘In fact since it appears to be lunchtime she’ll make you a sandwich or something, too. You started late so you won’t mind working straight through, will you?’

      ‘Not at all,’ she said, and Max Fleming was disconcerted to discover that he was quite unable to tell whether she was simply being polite or whether she was being just the smallest bit ironic. ‘I did wonder what I’d do for lunch,’ she added. ‘Working through certainly solves that problem.’ Ironic. Definitely ironic.

      She went through to her own office and Max followed her. ‘Where are you from, Jilly?’ Max asked, and immediately regretted his curiosity. He wasn’t in the least bit interested in where she had come from. She was just a temp for heaven’s sake. Here today, gone tomorrow—at least if the last two weeks were anything to judge by…

      ‘Can’t you tell?’ Her eyes sparkled as she looked back at him. Now she had removed her spectacles he could see that they were like the rest of her, just a little too large for her face, but quite unabashed by his scowl they were brimming with laughter, bringing his train of thought crashing to a halt. Hadn’t Amanda warned this girl that he was a bad-tempered ogre who had been going through temps faster than the average person went through a page-a-day calendar? ‘Ms Garland gave me the impression that she could cut my accent with a knife,’ she continued cheekily, ‘and serve it up in wedges with clotted cream.’

      ‘Amanda was exaggerating.’ Jilly’s accent was elusive, not something to be cut, but spooned like warm honey over toast… ‘But somewhere north of Watford, I’d guess,’ he continued rapidly, disconcerted at the direction his mind seemed to be taking.

      That was very nearly a joke, Jilly thought. ‘Then you’d guess right. Home is somewhere no one has ever heard of, but it’s near enough to Newcastle as makes no difference. Which reminds me, would it be possible to use your telephone? I’ll pay for the call.’

      Pay?

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