‘And that is?’ he asked coldly. The frown had died now, to be replaced by an expression of almost blank coolness.
‘My typing speed.’ It was hard work to keep her gaze from faltering from the rapier-sharp eyes, but she was determined to hang on in there. ‘My hair is blonde, I am twenty-seven years of age and my skirt—’ she glanced down for just a second to the tapered material that finished just below her knees ‘—is not ankle-length,’ she finished tightly.
‘No…’ His eyes had followed hers and lingered for just a second on the length of slender leg encased in gossamer-thin stockings the skirt exposed. ‘No, it isn’t.’ As the icy gaze met hers again she found it hard to stop a shiver from showing. There was a coldness in his eyes, his whole face, that was positively raw in its bleakness, turning the high, chiselled cheekbones and square, hard jaw into stone. He had to be the most detached, unapproachable man she had ever met in her whole life. And the two girls before her had made a pass at this block of ice? She’d like to shake their hands for sheer nerve.
‘Goodbye, then, Mr Strade.’ She hadn’t even begun to turn this time when the frosty voice rang out again.
‘I do the hiring and firing, and as yet I am not aware that either applies. You came for an interview and my time is valuable and not to be wasted. Sit down, Miss…?’
‘I’d rather not.’ She didn’t know where this aplomb was coming from—perhaps the chill that was emanating from him was affecting her, because in all fairness she should feel grossly intimidated, but instead her cheeks were burning with rage. ‘And it’s Worth, Mrs Worth,’ she finished with cold emphasis.
‘You’re married?’ The relief on his face was transparent and added to Lydia’s sense of outrage. What did he expect her to do, for goodness’ sake? Leap over the desk and rip off his trousers at the slightest encouragement? The man’s ego was jumbo-sized.
‘Yes, but I really don’t think——’
‘Please sit down, Mrs Worth.’ The transformation was sudden and breathtaking. What had been a block of stone metamorphosed instantly into the secretary’s ideal of the perfect boss—smiling, handsome and exuding benevolence. ‘We seem to have got off on the wrong foot, for which I accept the blame entirely.’
It was a twenty-four-carat smile, she had to give him that, Lydia thought weakly as she felt herself persuaded into the large, easy seat opposite the magnificent shiny desk in gleaming walnut. Mr Connoly still continued to hover anxiously at his managing director’s side, his mild, watery eyes begging her to be reasonable.
‘Could we put this unfortunate episode aside and begin anew?’ The vivid blue eyes fastened on her again and she realised with a little jolt that they were still as hard as iron. She had read somewhere that the eyes were considered windows to the soul in some cultures, and if that were the case…The shiver returned tenfold. ‘I don’t know how much Mr Connoly has told you about the position, but my very able and efficient secretary is at present on maternity leave.’ The harsh twist to his mouth as he spoke revealed his opinion of the poor woman’s amazing audacity more eloquently than any words could have done. ‘The agency we were with until yesterday provided…unsuitable replacements, and I do not have the time or the inclination to continue along that particular avenue.’ His scathing comments on her predecessors returned with renewed vigour and she nodded non-committally as her mind raced.
‘I want a secretary for the next few months who is prepared to work hard and be flexible when the occasion warrants it,’ he continued coldly. ‘Mrs Havers was forced to leave a month early due to some unforeseen difficulties, so I have been left in rather a vulnerable position, and I don’t like that, Mrs Worth.’ His smile was ironic. ‘I don’t like that at all.’ She glanced again at the firm, cruel mouth and ruthless, handsome face and nodded mentally. She could believe that, very definitely. She didn’t smile back.
‘For the right person, the rewards will match the dedication I require,’ he said quietly, after waiting a moment for her to speak, ‘but you understand this is not a nineto-five job.’
As Mr Connoly opened his mouth to speak, the other man glanced at him, motioning towards the door with a hard flick of his wrist. ‘Coffee, I think, Ted? Perhaps you’d organise that?’ he asked coldly.
‘Certainly, certainly.’ Mr Connoly fairly scampered across the room and out of the door, clearly glad to be out of a potentially difficult situation.
‘Mr Strade, I don’t think——’
He cut across her voice as though he hadn’t heard her, his tone reasonable, but with that underlying thread of steel that made her hackles rise. ‘The salary is not the usual agency rate, but if you accept the position you will earn every penny.’ He mentioned a figure that made her eyes widen and her mouth open slightly before she closed it with a little snap. With that amount guaranteed even for two or three months, she could afford to redecorate Hannah’s bedroom, turning it from a nursery into a little girl’s room, and perhaps even lash out on a new carpet for the lounge—the other was threadbare. And definitely those outstanding bills wouldn’t keep her awake any longer at night. But to work in close contact with this man each and every day? Could she endure it?
‘Of course, you may feel that, with family commitments, you couldn’t accept such a post if it was offered.’
‘I’m sorry?’ She raised her head from mental calculations of gas, electricity and water bills, realising she hadn’t heard a word he’d said in the last thirty seconds.
‘Your husband,’ he said patiently, his face expressionless. ‘Perhaps he would object to you working late or having to take off at short notice for a couple of days? It is not unusual for me to have to visit my subsidiaries at an hour’s notice and, as I have branches in Scotland, Wales, Manchester and Ireland, it often necessitates an overnight stay. Some husbands would find this unacceptable.’
Now was the moment to tell him. She stared across the desk into the austere face opposite her, but images of pink frilly curtains and flowery bedspreads and Hannah’s little face came between. If she told him she was a widow, she would be out of the door before she could say Jack Robinson, she thought frantically. He would think she was available, or at least that she thought he was available, she corrected mentally. And she knew that he was the last person on this earth she could harbour any romantic inclinations for, so where was the harm in a little unspoken deceit? And she wouldn’t actually lie, not really. And she needed that money, desperately. The mortgage had been paid off after Matthew’s death but the old, draughty terraced house ate gas and electricity, and the last three years had been an uphill struggle to survive on what she could earn. If her mother, herself a widow, hadn’t insisted on helping out as unpaid child-minder, financial waters would have closed over her head more than once…
‘Mrs Worth?’ Now the hard, deep voice was clearly impatient. ‘Would your husband find unsocial hours unacceptable?’ he asked tightly.
‘No.’ She raised her head and stared him straight in the eye. ‘No, he wouldn’t,’ she answered firmly.
‘Good.’ He settled back on the corner of the desk where he was perched, looking down at her. ‘Then perhaps this might be the time for a short test of your skills. You do do shorthand as well as audio-typing?’