LITMIR.BIZ

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bordered on the psychic. ‘All the same, Mags, I think it’s pretty mean of you to desert me on my first day back.’

      ‘I could stay to hold your hand if your sojourn down under has turned you soft. I don’t understand a word of German, but I could look intelligent.’ His secretary cast him an unsympathetic glance as she continued to flick through a file. ‘Here it is! I don’t know how it got there!’ she exclaimed, retrieving a sheaf of papers. ‘I want to leave everything as it should be for Rachel.’

      The reminder of a familiar name brought a reminiscent smile to his lips. ‘Would you really do that for me—cancel your holiday?’

      ‘No, I can’t wait to kick off the dust of this place,’ came the frank rejoinder.

      ‘So nice to see someone who enjoys her work.’

      ‘Huh! Listen to who’s talking. I didn’t see you hurrying back. Besides—’ the fashionable specs were pushed firmly up her retroussé nose ‘—I’m a legal secretary, not a slave—subtle difference, I know, but…’

      Benedict sat down on the edge of his desk. ‘PA sounds much more dynamic.’

      ‘I’m not feeling too dynamic right now.’

      ‘You’d really prefer to lie on a tropical beach with your husband than stay here?’ he said incredulously.

      ‘Call me peculiar… Ah, is that you, Rachel? Come along in!’ she yelled as she heard a sound in the adjoining room. ‘Rachel French, this is Benedict Arden. You probably haven’t met; I think he was on walkabout when you started.’

      Disbelief froze the polite smile on Rachel’s lips. The possibility that she’d met a doppelgänger or long-lost identical twin was speedily dismissed—it was him.

      Rachel wasn’t sure how long the shock lasted or when it became full-blown fury. A wave of humiliation fanned the flames of her anger. Her thoughts all ended in a big question mark. Sick joke…? Well, whatever it had been she’d certainly been sucked in.

      ‘Well, I’ll leave you two to it. I’ve already shown Rachel the layout and I’ve warned her you’ll work her to a shadow of her former self, and unlike me Rachel needs all the pounds she’s got! So be nice to her.’ She glared at her employer, affection thinly concealed beneath the spiky exterior.

      ‘I will, Mags.’ This could work out quite beautifully—then again maybe not, he thought, meeting the frozen hostility of his new assistant’s eyes.

      ‘He works so hard himself he doesn’t realise the rest of us have a social life.’

      Maggie hadn’t noticed anything, Rachel realised incredulously. She maintained her tight-lipped silence; if she said what she wanted to she just might lose her job! Screaming abuse at the big boss’s son had a habit of doing that. Social life? The way she’d heard it Benedict Arden, son of Sir Stuart Arden, the head of Chambers, managed a very creditable social life. The sort of social life beloved of society pages. What the grapevine hadn’t told her was that he got his kicks from humiliating those on a less elevated social plane.

      Whilst her features remained immobile her scorn spilled out into the grey of her clear eyes as they flickered briefly in his direction. That suit probably cost more than two months of her salary. In her head she’d furnished his home with rising damp and peeling paintwork—when she thought of the anxiety and guilt she’d felt when she’d pictured him in those surroundings! Her hands unconsciously balled into two fists. She was only vaguely conscious above the buzzing in her ears of Maggie’s departure.

      ‘So you work for Albert.’

      ‘I do.’

      ‘His secretaries always do have excellent…office skills.’

      He wasn’t looking at her office skills. ‘Are you implying I got my job on the merits of my legs?’ It was pretty hard to miss the fact that his eyes were on her legs, their slender length disguised by tailored fine black wool trousers.

      ‘Don’t get defensive. I don’t think you’re sleeping with the boss. Everyone knows Albert only ever looks; he’s a happily married man.’

      ‘That’s a weight off my mind; I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong end of the stick.’ That was it, after this dignified silence, she promised herself.

      ‘I expect you’re wondering…’

      ‘Not at all. Maggie has brought me up to speed. I’ve already provided translations of all the relevant documents. I don’t know if you’ve had an opportunity to read them yet…?’ she said briskly.

      The heavy lids had drooped slightly over the alert dark eyes and he levered his long frame from the edge of the desk, straightening his spine. He was one of the few men she’d ever seen who could get away with long hair past their teens and he was further past his teens than she’d imagined. But why should this surprise her when nothing else she’d imagined about him had been accurate?

      The newly shorn hair combined with the clean-shaven look revealed a deeply tanned, blemishless skin stretched tightly over a stunning bone structure. Fate and generous genes had arranged all those strong planes and hollows in exactly the right places, giving him a masculine beauty that was in no way soft or pretty.

      ‘We’ve got to work together…’

      ‘Maybe.’ She made it sound as though she had some choice in the matter, which they both knew wasn’t the case. ‘I’ll reserve my judgement on that. You do look the part.’ The way he looked was the way hungry young executives all over the city dreamed about looking—from his highly polished handmade shoes to his tasteful silk tie. ‘But then you’re good at that…’

      Why did I say that? she groaned inwardly. Anyone would think I want to get the sack! A mental picture of all the bills she needed to pay before the end of the month flashed before her eyes. Be cool, professional, she told herself; he’s not worth the energy of losing your temper.

      ‘So possibly we should clear the air?’ he continued, as if her acid observation had remained where it ought to—in the privacy of her mind.

      Rachel discovered resentfully that an eloquent quirk of one dark brow could make her feel childish and petulant. ‘I’m a secretary; I don’t require explanations, just instructions.’ Pragmatism lost out to the sort of antipathy that made her skin sprout invisible thorns.

      ‘Fine,’ he said, some of the lazy tolerance evaporating from his deep voice. ‘Instruction one, sit down!’ He grasped the back of one pale wooden Italian-designed chair and dragged it across the carpet.

      ‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ she gasped.

      ‘Please,’ he said, with a smile that made her realise the guise she’d last seen him in had only revealed a danger that was already in the man—disguised now by perfect tailoring and a cultured air, but it was there all the same…bone-deep. ‘That’s better,’ he approved as she reluctantly sat down in the chair he’d indicated.

      His fingers brushed against the back of her neck as he released his grip on the chair and she tried not to react. She prayed the sensation that crawled over her skin was revulsion—anything else she couldn’t cope with!

      ‘Why are you angry?’

      She automatically twisted her head to look at him—was he being serious? ‘I’m not.’

      ‘Surprise,’ he continued as though she hadn’t spoken, ‘amazement, curiosity… I experienced those when you walked through the door. I can identify with the gobsmacked state—’

      ‘You didn’t look very gobsmacked to me.’

      ‘I hide my emotions behind a suave exterior,’ he said blandly.

      ‘Are you laughing at me?’ This very definite suspicion only increased her deep sense of misuse.

      ‘Why the anger, Miss Rachel French? And don’t bother denying it;

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