Wild and Wanton (7 page)

‘You're crazy. What gives with you?'

‘Good night, Mr. Farraday,' she said doggedly.

She thought he wasn't going to leave. He stood glaring at her, frustration clouding the brilliance of his eyes, giving no intimation of what he intended to do. He picked up her hand. For a stunned moment she thought he was about to go through the formality of shaking it good-bye, which would have been the height of absurdity. But then his other hand came up to unroll her fingers. He trailed one of his own fingers along the center of her palm. Even as her whole body rocked at the sensuality of that action, his head lowered and he touched the spot with his lips. She shuddered with an intensity of feeling unlike
any
she had ever experienced.

He said something, tossing out the name of his confidential secretary, Barbara Bates, who would arrange any further dealings they had.

‘Will you phone?' he inquired.

‘No.'

He didn't utter another word, just left on that inconclusive note. She was as winded as if she'd been picked up and hurled forward by a hurricane. She felt that her destiny was no longer in
her
own hands, that her determination no longer counted.

For long moments after the door had closed after him she stood where she was, shivering uncontrollably, her heart gripped by a strange chill, her face and body flushed by the shock of having known herself for twenty-two years and now not knowing herself at all. This sensual awakening was the most profoundly disturbing thing she had ever known. She would have welcomed it with joy, she would have been twirling round with stars in her eyes and hugging herself in bliss, had her emotions been unlocked by any other man. How could she respond like this to Nick Farraday? Of all the men in the world, why did it have to be he? If only she could shut out the awareness he had magically opened to her and throw the key into the garbage, where it belonged. Why had she come alive for him? It was too bitterly ironic.

She turned and crossed to the sink. She
turned
on the cold water and held her hand palm upward under the jet, in the forlorn hope that it was possible to wash away the burning imprint of his lips. She threw out the coffee they hadn't drunk. Instead she made herself a cup of hot chocolate. But that too went untasted and was eventually rinsed away.

She was a long time in getting to sleep. Thoughts tossed about in her mind. The Nick Farraday she had met didn't match the impression she had gotten from her brother. She had never properly analyzed it before, but in thinking about it now she realized that Phil's description had had the flavor of jealousy, particularly where it concerned Nick Farraday's easy conquests. That thought had never entered her mind before, because it had been inconceivable to think her brother could have been envious of Nick Farraday's success with women.

Phil had had the best wife a man could wish for in Cathy. A very feminine woman, Cathy was soft and gentle, with an understanding of his volatile moods and his need to breathe which had left Lindsay in awe. Knowing her brother as she did, Lindsay had been afraid that he wouldn't easily come to terms with marriage, that it might be too rigid a lifestyle for him. But Cathy had been good for him; she had provided the steadying influence which he needed without stifling him, and she had kept a constant heart and a cozy home, bliss for any
man
who carried the responsibility of a demanding job. Lindsay knew that her brother had felt lucky to have Cathy's love, had felt that the women who fell so readily into Nick Farraday's arms were attracted to the power of a name and vast wealth. But she now knew firsthand that this was not so. If Nick Farraday hadn't had a cent to his name it wouldn't have made any difference; women would have knocked each other out of the way for the privilege of being with him. Not that that state of affairs could ever have come about. Moreover, Nick Farraday was no gigolo. He wouldn't take anything from a woman but what the woman was willing to offer. And even if he hadn't had a cozy, well-established business to fall into—something else Phil had niggled about—he would still have made his mark in life. His drive and his vigor and his razor-sharp brain would still have taken him to the top.

London was wrapped in the mist of a pearly gray dawn before Lindsay managed to close her eyes. As a result she was late in getting up. Despite the need to rush, she knew she wouldn't be able to give her best if she didn't revive herself with a shower and snatch a hurried breakfast of toast and coffee.

She managed to get a cab with little
difficulty,
but the traffic was so intense that it would have been quicker to jog, a thought that prompted her to ask the cabbie to stop several blocks short of the agency. She didn't exactly sprint, but her stride matched the brisk pace of the city, and on pushing open the door of her office she collapsed on her chair, winded.

She was still getting her breath back when Jim Bourne buzzed her. ‘You in yet, Lindsay?'

‘Just. Sorry I'm late.'

The favor she usually found in his eyes wouldn't excuse her tardiness, because he was a stickler for punctuality. Lindsay swallowed at hearing Jim say, ‘It will make up for all the times that's happened at the other end of the day.'

It was true that Lindsay often stayed at her desk after closing time, but no mention had been made of this before, and she glowed at being appreciated. ‘I didn't think you'd noticed.'

‘I notice a lot of things I don't comment on. Come in, will you?'

‘I'll be right there.'

But the step that took her into his office was less enthusiastic than her voice. Lindsay knew that Jim Bourne would want to know all about the previous night, and she wasn't looking forward to relating even the bit she could tell him.

‘Won't be a minute,' Jim said, not looking up from his scribbling. She had never known
anyone
who could write with his speed. At the same time he waved his hand to indicate that she should sit down.

When he looked up, his eyes couldn't decide what emotion to express. She saw dry humor, annoyance, wonder and exasperation. ‘Barbara Bates, Nick Farraday's secretary, has just been on the phone.'

‘Oh, you know, then?' That was one hurdle over, at least.

‘She said you had to report this morning for tests. Miss Bates gives very little away, but the way your presence is demanded says all.'

‘I don't know why Nick Farraday picked me to promote his new product. It's utterly ridiculous. When I woke up this morning I was hoping I'd dreamed it.'

‘No dream, and it could be a nightmare for me, having to replace you.'

‘I told Nick Farraday that I wasn't interested, and that I wouldn't show up for the tests.'

‘You
what?
'

‘You don't have to bellow at me,' Lindsay said softly.

‘I didn't think I'd heard right. No one in his right mind turns Nick Farraday down.'

Lindsay could have said that that was true. She
hadn't
been in her right mind since meeting Nick Farraday. Instead she said firmly, ‘
I
did.'

‘Much good it's done you. A car is coming
for
you in—' he checked his watch—‘just under half an hour.'

‘Do I have to go?'

She was thinking of the implied threat Nick Farraday had made, and something of this recollection altered her voice. Jim Bourne picked up on it. For the first time in their acquaintance, his earthy-brown eyes, symbolic for her of what the good earth stood for, a stability which you could trust to never let you down, did not quite meet hers. ‘That guy wields a lot of power, Lindsay.'

‘I know, but . . .'

‘What have you got against him? And don't say nothing, or that you dislike his type on principle, because it's obvious that it's something more, something pretty deep-rooted which is going to ruin the chance of a lifetime if you're fool enough to let it. Do you know what you'd be passing up? The last time they went to town this way was to launch the Delmar Woman line.'

Delmar Woman, in its attractive aquamarine packaging, included an array of cosmetics and toiletries that could be found on almost every fashionable woman's bathroom shelf, including Lindsay's. Introduced with tremendous fanfare, the line had been an instant success, and sales had risen steadily over the years until it had eclipsed its fiercest rivals in popularity.

‘The budget will run into millions of
pounds.
The coverage will be worldwide. Paris would be at your feet. Rome would romanticize your name. I know you've always had a hankering to go to Hawaii, because you've told me so. Well that, and many other glamor spots you'd never have dreamed of seeing, will be within your reach.'

‘You're wasting your breath, Jim. The icing on the cake doesn't seem as sweet when you consider the inedible bits that have to be swallowed to get to it,' she said with quiet determination.

‘You make it hard on a guy,' he grunted. ‘The fact is, I don't have the muscle to take on Farraday.'

‘That doesn't sound like you, Jim.'

‘No, it doesn't.' His forehead furrowed in thought as he considered that truth. If she knew the man at all, he was searching for a way out that wouldn't bruise his ego. ‘I enjoy a contest and normally, no matter what, I'd be in there fighting if I thought I'd have a ghost of a chance. But this time, even if the odds were more even, it wouldn't make a bit of difference; I'd still take a back seat. I couldn't live with my conscience if I thought I was in any way responsible for making you miss a golden opportunity. Anyway, what inedible bits?'

Irrespective of whether or not she wanted to tell him, she knew she had to. On top of that, she wanted to spill out all the invective and
bitterness
bottled up in her. Then, perhaps, Jim Bourne would be able to get her out of this predicament.

As she opened her mouth to begin speaking, it occurred to her that while Jim had been talking his left hand had lowered beneath the level of his desk. But she didn't think anything of it. Before she managed to utter more than two or three words, however, Denise, another girl in his employ, burst in carrying a bulging file.

‘I hope you realize you've got an appointment with . . .' With impeccable timing Denise's eyes widened at the sight of Lindsay. ‘Oh, I thought you were alone. I'm sorry to intrude. Perhaps I should . . .'

‘No, it's all right, Denise,' Jim Bourne assured smoothly. ‘You were perfectly in order to come in. I'd completely forgotten, and I've a lot of boning up to do.' Switching his attention to Lindsay, he said ruefully, ‘You see how it is? Perhaps we'll get a chance to talk later. How about when you report back to tell me how the tests went?'

‘Sure,' Lindsay agreed, her unwavering glance giving away none of her feelings of inner collapse.

Jim had, of course, pressed the tiny button beneath the desk, bringing Denise in on the double. It was a summons which Lindsay herself had answered on countless occasions to cut short a sticky interview that Jim Bourne
wanted
to end.

She knew that if she asked Denise for confirmation, it wouldn't be forthcoming. Denise was several years older than Lindsay. She'd had a rough time in her past two relationships, and she was looking for a man who would offer her something long-term. Toward this end, she had been sending Jim Bourne some pretty soft looks, leaning over his desk in a provocative way and swaying her hips as she walked away on her long and beautifully shaped legs. If Lindsay were to leave the agency there was little doubt that Denise would fill the vacancy and, with a major obstacle out of the way, double her endeavors to promote herself all the way to Jim's heart.

Lindsay had to laugh. That soft spot had the substance of a marshmallow. And Lindsay was convinced that Jim Bourne had had a soft spot for
her.
Since clashing with Nick Farraday and seeing the way she reacted to him, it had been brought home more forcibly to her that all she'd felt was a deep liking for Jim Bourne as a man, and admiration for him as an employer. But disillusionment never came without a price, and Lindsay experienced a dull ache under her breastbone. She would have staked her life on Jim's constancy, would have been prepared to swear on a stack of Bibles that he feared no one and would fight to the end if the cause was just. Perhaps she just wasn't as good a judge of character as she'd thought. She
couldn't
decide whether it made her feel better or worse to know that despite everything Jim still had a conscience. He hadn't dared to let Lindsay tell him what troubled her so deeply. He had preferred to put on blinkers rather than bear something that would make him uneasy.

Was she in a position to blame him for that? she thought, repining over this second loss of the rose-tinted glasses she had been prone to wear. If only she could get them back. It wasn't always good to see things too clearly, and the sad little ache in her heart told her that this was only the beginning of more such disillusionment.

The Delmar car came for her before she'd made any clear-cut decision about her plans. The fact that she couldn't go on working for Jim Bourne was the only certainty in her mind. In spite of the excuses she'd made for him, she had no respect for a man who would throw her to the lions to protect his own interests. She couldn't give her loyalty to someone she felt was possibly unworthy of it. It was a good job, well-paying, and one she enjoyed doing, and she knew that many women would have carried on at it regardless. With a wry smile she realized that her painful honesty was getting in the way once again.

Perhaps, she mused, she ought to quit London and go home to Yorkshire. But that would put too much distance between her and
Cathy.
She was worried about Cathy. It was over two years now since Phil's death. It was time Cathy pulled herself together, got out, and made something of her life again.