She would have to hurry, though, and dashed a rebel tear from her cheek. She didn’t want to look flustered or upset when Guy arrived. She wanted to be every inch her usual competent self. All she could salvage from this situation was her pride and, by golly, she was going to leave here with it intact.
Taking a deep breath, she walked briskly across the reception area, dumping her handbag on her chair before continuing on into the small room which doubled as a kitchenette-store-room. There, she propped her umbrella in a corner, hung her raincoat on a wall peg, then stripped off her wet tights and shoes, replacing them with spares she kept in an old filing cabinet.
Once the kettle was on the boil for a much needed cup of coffee she went into the adjoining washroom to make repairs to her face and hair.
The reflection that confronted Samantha would not have won cover-girl of the year. But neither would it have got the wooden spoon award for looks. She had good skin and a balanced bone-structure, clear hazel eyes, a straight nose, well-shaped lips and an elegant neck, shown to perfection by the way she always wore her hair up.
Samantha was well aware that she could probably cut a more striking appearance if she let her long, wavy brown hair flow out over her shoulders, if she replaced her light natural make-up with a more dramatic look, then dolled herself up in figure-hugging feminine frippery, rather than the tailored suits and blouses she chose to wear. Even when going out at night she didn’t wear sexy evening gear, opting for trousers—usually black—and silk shirts in neutral colours. But she was comfortable the way she was, and felt foolish and self-conscious whenever she tried a different look.
A sardonic smile crossed her lips as she tried to picture how Guy would react if she came into the office wearing a flashily styled, brightly coloured dress.
Her heart turned over at the thought that he might not notice a single thing.
The sound of a door opening and shutting made her jump. Surely it couldn’t be Guy this early?
She hurried from the washroom and gawped at the sight of her boss leaning against the kitchenette doorway and looking not at all well. Shocked eyes ran over his dishevelled appearance. He hadn’t shaved; no comb had touched his hair. And his charcoal-grey suit looked as if he’d slept in it.
‘My God, Guy, what’s happened to you?’ she blurted out.
CHAPTER TWO
GUY remained grimly silent, levering himself away from the door-jamb and scooping a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket. Samantha stared in amazement. Surely he wasn’t going to smoke, was he? He certainly wouldn’t if his date with sexy Debra had reached its logical conclusion. In bed.
Samantha watched with heartbeat suspended as he extracted the last cigarette from the gold box and shoved it in his mouth. He tossed the empty container in the direction of the waste-paper basket in the corner. It fell in, a perfect goal.
Her heart started thudding as he fished his lighter out of his trouser pocket, flicked it to flame and lit the cigarette, snapping the lighter shut afterwards and drawing in deeply.
Her relief was so gut-wrenching that she felt like crying. Oh, God! What had she come to with this man?
‘Dad’s in hospital,’ he said abruptly. ‘Heart attack. He’s in Intensive Care.’
Samantha’s heart twisted with dismay and guilt. There she’d been, consumed with Guy’s sex life, and he had spent the night worrying at his father’s possible deathbed.
‘Oh, how awful for you,’ she cried. She knew how close he and his father were. Mr Haywood senior was always popping in to the office for a chat with his son, and Guy often went fishing with him at weekends. He would be devastated if his dad died. He already looked devastated.
Samantha wanted to hug him, hold him, comfort him. But how could she? All she could do was try to say the right things. ‘I hope he’ll be all right,’ she added gently. ‘What hospital is he in?’
‘St Vincent’s.’
‘Well, that’s the best place he could be,’ she soothed. ‘What do the doctors say? What are his chances?’
Guy heaved a weary sigh. Smoke curled around his head. ‘They’re reservedly hopeful. Apparently if you survive the first few hours after the initial attack you have a good chance of a complete recovery. At least, that’s the theory,’ he added with a caustic edge to his voice. ‘He looks like death warmed up.’
‘You don’t look much better.’ Samantha walked over to the small kitchen counter next to the sink and turned off the boiling kettle. ‘Let me get you some coffee.’
He flashed her a grateful glance. ‘Thanks. It’s been a long night. It was after midnight when the call came from the hospital. Debra and I had just got back to my place after the show. We raced straight to the hospital. I’ve been there ever since. The doctor finally insisted I go home, but I didn’t want to go back to an empty house.’
‘Empty?’ She looked up from where she was spooning instant coffee into two brown stoneware mugs. ‘Why is it empty?’
A couple of years ago Guy had sold his terraced house in Paddington and bought a harbour-side mansion, more suited to entertaining on a large scale. At the same time he had hired a childless couple to live in to be cook-housekeeper and handyman-gardener. In their fifties, Leon and Barbara Parker were devoted to both their generous employer and his beautiful home. ‘Where are Barbara and Leon?’
‘Gone interstate for a nephew’s wedding.’ A scowl crossed his handsomely ravaged face. ‘The bane of the human race, weddings! Look what happened to this office when you went to one. Not only do they put people out by having to go to them, but in a couple of years it’s all down the drain anyway when the besotted fools become unbesotted and get divorced!’
Samantha shook her head. She could never agree with Guy’s cynical attitude to marriage. The divorce rate in Australia wasn’t that bad. OK, so his father had married and divorced three times over the past twenty-five years, but his first marriage—to Guy’s mother—had not ended that way. Guy had told her that the first Mrs Haywood had died of kidney failure when he was ten years old.
‘Not all marriages end in divorce,’ she pointed out sensibly. ‘And not all people marry just for sex.’
‘Most men do,’ he scorned. ‘And what happens? Six to eighteen months later the passion dies, and so does the marriage. If they stay together longer than that it’s probably only for the sake of the children. Believe me, I know.’
It crossed her mind that his father and mother might not have been too happy in their marriage. Not that she thought this an excuse for Guy’s cynicism. Nor for the callous way he treated the women in his life. Two wrongs did not make a right, she always believed. But it did make her understand him better.
‘Some men might marry just for sex,’ she argued calmly. ‘But some men don’t. Look, this is hardly the time for a deep and meaningful discussion on marriage. You’re dead on your feet. Why don’t you have a nap on the chesterfield in your office?’ she suggested as she added the boiling water to the coffee. ‘I’ve a pillow and blanket in the bottom of the old filing cabinet here.’
His laugh was dry. ‘What don’t you have in the bottom of that thing?’
‘Never you mind,’ she chided. ‘It’s my personal emergency store.’
‘Well, this is certainly an emergency.’ He scooped up his coffee, which he took black and unsweetened, and turned to leave. ‘Drag them out and bring them in in ten minutes, will you? I’ve got a few phone calls to make first.’
He began to