LITMIR.BIZ

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She groaned. Why, when he had confirmed her assessment of him as not suffering fools, must she play the clown with her every move?

      ‘I should never’ve got up this morning,’ she muttered.

      ‘It would have made my life one heck of a sight easier,’ the man agreed stingingly.

      ‘The bits’ll come off,’ she said, refolding the tissues to a dry patch.

      He raised a long-fingered hand. ‘Leave it,’ he ordered.

      ‘But—’

      ‘Would you do me a favour and keep away from me? Well away.’

      She stuffed the tissues back into the sports bag. So much for trying to help—and so much for her sex appeal. The only way to make his knees weaken would be to hit them with a mallet!

      The lift was stopping and when Jess looked at the panel the light showed that, in her do-gooder confusion, the slow-pause-start procedure at the two previous floors had passed unnoticed and they had reached their destination. Heaven be praised.

      ‘I’ll pay for your suit to be cleaned,’ she said, delving in amongst her swimming gear to find her purse.

      ‘Thanks for the offer, but there’s no need.’

      ‘I’d like to pay.’

      The man hoisted a brow. ‘With what—notes which glue themselves to the hand or dye the skin bright purple or give off that fragrant aroma of swimming pool which I’ve detected? If you don’t mind, I’ll pass.’

      Her temper flared. The yellow flecks burned in her hazel eyes. Where pure unvarnished sarcasm was concerned, he ranked as a Grand Master.

      ‘I do mind,’ she began to insist, but he ignored her.

      ‘I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Indeed, my only regret is that we shall never meet again,’ he said, his tone as dry as dust, and as the doors slid aside he stepped out onto the wide pale-carpeted corridor and strode away.

      Jess stuck out her tongue at his broad back. It might have been a juvenile yah-boo response, yet it felt immensely satisfying.

      She frowned down at the note which she held in her hand. Her instinct was to chase after him and thrust it stubbornly into his pocket—why should he be allowed to dictate everything?—but after a moment she returned it to her purse. She had no wish to be ordered to keep away again and, in any case, once she embarked on a full-time painting career she was going to need all available cash.

      Her eyes went to the champagne-spattered walls and patch of soggy carpet. The lift required attention. Walking out to drop the empty bottle into a convenient waste bin, she looked up and down the corridor. The stranger had disappeared off to the right, but in the distance on the left two women in overalls were chatting beside a vacuum cleaner. She alerted them to the state of the lift and asked for directions to the ladies’ room.

      Jess washed her hands, coloured her lips with ‘Rosy Amber’ and brushed her hair. Whether it was due to being sprinkled with champagne or because of the chlorine she could not decide, but her corn-blonde urchin cut felt like fuse wire.

      She checked her wristwatch. Damn. She was now almost ten minutes late and had still to locate the required suite of offices.

      After consulting the cleaning women, who had become busy in the lift, she trekked off down what seemed like miles of corridors until she reached glass swing doors emblazoned with the gold-etched words ‘Warwick Group’. Both the reception area and the secretary’s room to where she was directed were elegantly decorated with neutral cream walls and carpet, offset by richly coloured curtains and upholstery in dark green and magenta. Solid walnut desks and bookshelves gave a feel of bygone years, while the only contemporary note was struck by a cool white computer.

      ‘I’m Jessica Pallister from Citadel Security and I have an appointment with Sir Peter Warwick,’ she informed the secretary, who was a bustling middle-aged brunette.

      ‘I’ll tell him you’re here,’ the woman said, with a smile, and disappeared through a connecting door. ‘He’s not quite ready and asks if you would kindly wait a few minutes,’ she reported, coming back. ‘Please, take a seat. I must collect a fax,’ she continued, hurrying towards the outer door. ‘Do excuse me.’

      Grateful that her lack of punctuality had been of no consequence, Jess sat down. As she waited, she recapped on the few facts which Kevin had been given about the job. It seemed that Sir Peter had received a note which threatened the safety of an associate who was involved in the construction of a hotel which the Warwick Group were building in Mauritius. A female relative of the person was also at risk and they wished to discuss the employment of two bodyguards, one a woman, initially for a period of three months.

      ‘All the guys are tied up today, but this is just an exploratory talk,’ her brother had said, ‘so we can decide who goes with you later.’

      ‘If I go,’ she had pointed out.

      Working on an island in the middle of the Indian Ocean would put her way beyond Roscoe Dunbar’s reach, Jess reflected, which was a plus. But, on the minus side, whilst blue skies, swaying palms and silver-white beaches had a glamorous spin and were fine on holiday, as a three-month working environment they could become repetitive. Boring. Dull. Yet the bottom line was that after almost five years of shooting off here, there and everywhere on the spur of the moment she had had enough.

      She frowned down at her ankle-booted feet. She wanted to stay home, pick up the threads with old friends and concentrate on her painting. This morning she had been all set to announce the decision which, although reached on the spur of the moment, had been building for a long time and cut loose, but Kevin had had his say first. And because she had idolised him from being a tiny girl—as she idolised her other two brothers, Jess thought wryly—she had fallen in with his wishes and agreed to consider the job. Though only consider.

      All of a sudden, she tilted her head. The secretary could not have closed the connecting door properly for it had sprung open and through the gap she could hear voices. A trio of male voices. Two of them were low and indecipherable, but the third was plummily, youthfully strident and rang out.

      ‘I believe it’s for real and I insist we take precautions, for our protection as well as yours,’ the voice said. ‘But don’t fret, you’re not going to be landed with two hulking brutes of ex-boxers, because one of them is a woman.’

      Jess sat straighter. They were discussing security. One of the other men spoke earnestly and in what could be recognised as objection, then the ringing voice intruded.

      ‘Ease up, Lorcan. I’m sure your idea of an Amazon who splits bricks with her bare hands and has hairs sprouting from her chin is way off the mark,’ it said, and its owner guffawed.

      Her hazel eyes burned. Whoever Lorcan was, he had a vivid and insulting imagination!

      More indecipherable conversation followed, with the third man joining in, and again the strident voice sounded.

      ‘Let’s bring Miss Pallister through and—’

      ‘You have this all fixed?’ the objector demanded, his voice lifting in protest, but the connecting door had already been swung open and a baby-faced young man was strolling out.

      With gelled fair hair slicked back from his brow and wearing a pearl-grey designer suit, grey shirt, white tie and white leather shoes, he had the self-satisfied air of someone who considered himself to be a cool dude.

      Jess rose from her chair. ‘Hello.’

      Taking a deep drag on the cheroot which he held between two fingers, the young man looked her up and down.

      ‘Gerard Warwick, delighted to meet you,’ he murmured, with a smile which was a touch too smooth, a touch too intimate, and, hooking an arm around her shoulders, he steered her with him into the adjoining office. ‘See, Lorcan,’ he said triumphantly, and indicated a portly, silver-haired man in his sixties, who

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