The look of contemptuous disdain on Pearce Tyrone’s face was awesome. Cathy shrank back in her chair as he made a very derisive statement about members of the press.
‘What did you tell them?’ He fixed her with a perishing glare.
‘Nothing.’ Cathy batted wide blue eyes at him. ‘What should I have said?’
‘You should have told them to mind their own damn business and that if they printed one word of a lie in their filthy rags I’d sue them from here to eternity.’
Pearce Tyrone was not a person to cross. She had known it from the first moment she had set eyes on him. His words now confirmed it even more. If she had any sense she would get out of here p.d.q. This charade would end in tears and they were most likely to be her tears.
‘Sorry.’ Pearce leaned back in his chair and smiled suddenly at her. ‘I shouldn’t be taking it out on you.’
‘I ... no ... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have answered the phone.’ His smile did very strange things to her senses.
‘Doesn’t matter.’ He waved a hand airily. ‘Now, where were we?’
Remembering the references for Mabel Flowers spread before him, Cathy felt her apprehension growing. ‘Actually, you were just about to pour me a black coffee,’ she told him, an idea born of desperation forming in her mind.
He turned and poured two cups, then handed one across to her.
As she took it from him she moved awkwardly, and pretended to lose her grip on the china saucer so that the cup tipped down on the desk, spilling hot black liquid all over the references.
‘Oh, no... I’m so sorry.’ Trying to sound horrified, she picked up the crockery and watched the black stain creep further over the papers. Pearce said nothing, just calmly reached for a box of tissues and started to mop up the mess.
Cathy watched anxiously, hoping that she would at least have succeeded in obliterating the name at the top of the page.
‘Not much damage done,’ Pearce said easily.
‘Here, let me help.’ Cathy sprang to her feet and, taking a couple of tissues, she rubbed very hard at the top of the page where the name was. She rubbed so hard that the weakened paper tore.
Pearce’s hand closed over hers. ‘Ms Fielding.’ His voice took on a brusque edge. ‘You are making matters worse.’
‘Am I?’ The touch of his hand against her skin was most disconcerting. She tried to ignore it and her hand closed in a tight fist, effectively scrunching up the tissue and taking the torn piece of the reference with it. Then she made to pull away from him.
He didn’t release her and she looked at him, trying hard to keep her expression innocently questioning. Their faces seemed very close across the desk. She noticed that his eyes had darker flecks in them. His skin was smooth and healthily tanned. She could smell the faint, subtle tang of an expensive cologne. It was extremely pleasant, as was the whisper-soft feeling of his breath against her skin. Her nerve-endings seemed to prickle with consciousness.
‘Is ... is something wrong?’ It took all her resources to keep her voice level.
His expression was hard and unyielding, just like the hand that held her. ‘You’ve got a piece of the reference in your hand.’
‘Have I? Oh, dear... I am sorry.’ She fluttered her eyelashes. It was more a nervous reaction than a conscious effect.
Pearce’s lips slanted in an unamused line. Very coolly and deliberately he uncurled her fingers and took the soggy paper from her.
She watched as he opened it and only when she saw that it was just a soggy mess did she relax slightly.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she muttered again, sitting back in her chair.
He regarded her steadily. ‘I hope you are not normally so clumsy, Ms Fielding.’ The censure in his tone was unmistakable.
‘It was an accident. I did apologise.’ A note of annoyance crept into her voice, but her anger was directed at herself. She felt guilty for this deceit...yet she felt compelled to keep it up. It was the dogged reporter in her, she supposed. The scent of a story holding her almost against her will.
He swept the wet pages to one side. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he muttered. ‘I have work to get on with. I’ll ask the agency to fax over new copies later.’
‘Shall I get back to the nursery?’ It would almost be a relief to get away from his presence for a moment. Every time she met his eyes she felt overwhelmed by him. She supposed it was her guilty conscience. She wasn’t used to lying—it certainly didn’t come naturally to her.
‘Stay where you are,’ he ordered in a clipped voice.
He pulled out a clean piece of paper and picked up a pen. He didn’t write anything, just tapped the pen on the page from time to time.
‘I might remind you,’ he said sternly, ‘that my standards are high. That is why I contacted the Elite Agency.’
‘Of course.’ She hoped that her demure tone didn’t sound sarcastic.
‘I told the Agency to send me no less than their best person.’
Cathy said nothing to that. She was too busy wondering what his requirements were. She didn’t have to wonder long.
‘The agency tell me you are a cordon bleu cook,’ Pearce continued, watching her steadily.
Cathy tried not to blanch; she could barely boil an egg.
‘As I stated in my telephone call to Mrs Roberts...uh, it is Mrs Roberts at the agency, is it not?’
Cathy hesitated and then ventured boldly, ‘Well, actually, I have only ever dealt with Janet Mercer.’ She felt rather pleased with herself as Pearce nodded.
‘Oh, yes, I spoke to Mrs Mercer the first time I contacted the agency. I told her I wanted someone to run the house, cook, clean and take very good care of Poppy.’ He reached for his coffee and took a sip.
Cathy noticed that he hadn’t offered her a fresh cup. Probably afraid of what she would do with it.
‘And, as I want you to do some typing for me in your spare time I think we should draw up a timetable and get organised.’
Cathy tried not to pull a face. She was very glad that she wouldn’t be staying around here for too long. Cooking, cleaning, baby-minding ... typing! Even Mary Poppins hadn’t had it that hard.
‘Would you like to say anything?’ Pearce leaned back in his chair and regarded her steadily.
Something about his flint-like expression made her temper simmer. There were a few things she would have liked to say, but nothing would be gained from airing her views about him being a slave-driver. Wait until Mike heard about this, she thought grimly.
Instead she asked coolly, ‘How much are you going to pay me?’ Of course she had no intention of hanging around to be paid, but it might make interesting reading.
He frowned. ‘Hasn’t the agency told you?’
‘Yes.’ She shrugged, and tried to look nonchalant. ‘But now you want me to do extra duties, such as typing.’
One eyebrow lifted. ‘You are direct, Ms Fielding. A quality I admire.’ He paused for just a moment. ‘Let’s round your salary up, then.’
He proceeded to name an amount that nearly made her fall off the chair. It was no wonder that Pearce expected a lot—he was paying a small fortune. Her theory about him being a slave-driver had been way off the mark; he was paying for a top service.