Grace shuddered. ‘I’m sorry, Henry,’ she replied dully. ‘How was I to know you’d bring him home? I didn’t even know the man was in Townsville.’ With nervous, wrenching movements, she pulled on her jeans. All she could think of was how badly she wanted to get away.
And never come back!
Henry was carrying on like a spoilt little boy who’d dropped his ice-cream cone in the dirt.
‘I’m sure you’ll be able to show your ideas to him some other time,’ she muttered. Why had she ever wasted one moment trying to arouse Henry’s interest in her? He couldn’t have been less appreciative of her efforts if she’d trashed his entire flat.
She shoved her feet into trainers. ‘I’m sorry my silly plan was such a flop,’ she told him as he slumped and sulked on the far side of the bed. Her shoulders rose in a dismissive shrug. ‘It—it seemed like a good idea at the time…’
But not any more! A wave of shame drenched her with fresh horror. Never had she been more aware of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Henry shook his head and growled. ‘I thought you were supposed to be smart, but that was about the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen.’
One thing was for sure, Grace promised herself silently: Henry wouldn’t see anything like that ever again. Jumping up, she grabbed her carryall and offered him a mumbled, ‘I won’t hang around,’ before blinking back embarrassed tears, hurrying past him and out of the room.
But as she left his flat Grace winced at the thought of a much more pressing concern than Henry’s fit of the sulks. Her big, bigger, biggest problem was so horrendous she wished she could take off on the next space shuttle! She’d gladly spend six months on a space station in the far reaches of the universe.
There was no way on earth she could face her new boss in the morning.
Please, please, please don’t let him recognise me.
When Mitch Wentworth stepped into her office next morning, Grace huddled over her computer and prayed as she had never prayed before.
She was prepared to repent in sackcloth and ashes. She would make a big donation to charity. She could do both. Anything. Just as long as her boss didn’t connect her with that humiliating moment in Henry’s doorway.
This morning, she’d taken great pains to look as different from the previous night’s pouting sexpot as she possibly could. But was it enough? Suddenly, with Mitch Wentworth’s expensive, hand-stitched shoes firmly planted in the middle of her office, Grace doubted the ability of hair gel and a primly fashioned bun to effectively change her appearance. And how helpful were the heavily framed glasses she’d borrowed from her neighbour? Her only reassurance was that last night Mitch had glimpsed her very briefly. And surely the shapeless, dull brown dress disguised her body?
What had actually been said at Henry’s front door was all an embarrassing blur, but with a hefty dollop of luck Mitch Wentworth would have no idea she was remotely connected to Henry Aspinall—or the trollop who’d greeted him last night.
Nevertheless, as he moved towards her, her shoulders lifted and squared as if she was braced to take a blow.
‘Good morning. I presume I have the pleasure of meeting Ms Robbins?’ His dark eyes assessed her carefully, but they showed no sign of recognition.
Yes! Relief flowed and swirled through Grace, but she still couldn’t dredge up a smile as she replied, ‘Good morning, Mr Wentworth.’ She stood and held out her hand to greet him formally, and the room buzzed with her tension. His handshake was predictably strong and firm.
My, he was tall! And broad-shouldered. She’d been prepared for the well-defined bone structure, the thick dark hair and the eyes designed purely for seduction, and last night she’d realised he was a big man. But now, in her small office, he took up far too much space. There was no escaping his spectacular style of masculinity: the kind of looks she’d learned to mistrust instinctively.
‘You come highly recommended. George Hervey gave a glowing report.’
She smiled faintly.
Mitch did not smile back. ‘But, of course, that’s all over now. With me, you will have to prove yourself.’
Prove myself?
Despite her nervousness, a surge of defiance heated Grace’s cheeks. Here we go! The bloodthirsty pirate takes the helm! Her chin lifted automatically, but, just in time, she remembered to mask her stormy reaction by lowering her gaze. Her green eyes had a bad habit of attracting unwanted attention when her dander was up. And already she could feel her hackles rising.
Mitch spoke again, his deep Australian drawl blending with the American twang he’d acquired after many years in the United States. ‘I expect one hundred per cent commitment and loyalty.’
‘Of course, Mr Wentworth.’
He drew in a sharp breath and Grace suspected that her softly spoken subservience irked him. Nevertheless, he continued without missing another beat. ‘You’re a vital key to the success of this New Tomorrow project. But…’ his voice dropped and he paused for dramatic effect ‘…I am that project. You’re working for me now, Grace Robbins. When you think of New Tomorrow, you think of me.’
He was as full of himself as she’d expected! However, she couldn’t ignore the fact that his brainchild was very exciting—a project she itched to become more involved with.
‘Your film has a brilliant premise,’ she replied, and would have continued, but, with an ominous flourish, Mitch reached into his pocket and withdrew something that looked like a magazine.
He threw it onto the table.
Her boss grinned up at her, his face disguised by a bristly moustache.
Rimless spectacles.
And blackened teeth!
Grace’s stomach felt as if it had been pumped full of concrete. Slashed onto the page with thick, black, angry strokes, her graffiti was clear evidence of the tantrum she’d thrown in this very office after her lunchtime discussion with Maria.
How on earth had he found it?
She flinched.
And suppressed a whimper.
Gulped down the urge to scream. Why couldn’t real life be like making a movie? If only a director could jump into her office and yell, ‘Cut! I don’t like the way this scene’s falling. Let’s start again and this time we’ll leave out the magazine…’
But no.
No one was going to rescue her from her own reckless actions. For several seconds Grace hoped she might faint.
No such luck.
Her legs trembled, but didn’t give way. No comforting blackness descended. And Mitch Wentworth remained standing squarely in front of her, pinning her to the spot with his cold, unflinching stare.
‘It seems you have a problem,’ he challenged.
She swayed slightly and grasped the back of her chair.
‘Obviously, you’ve got a problem with me,’ Mitch repeated in a cold, flat voice.
Where had she heard that the best defence was to attack? With a shaking, accusing finger, she pointed at him. ‘You—you’ve been spying on me!’
He stared at her in simmering silence. Then, to her surprise, he shook his head and walked away. For several seconds, Mitch stood with his back to her, but Grace could sense his anger in the rise and fall of his shoulders. He turned swiftly to face her again. ‘I don’t spy, Ms Robbins! I called here yesterday evening to check out the office. My office. And it didn’t take the help of a special service investigator to uncover what you left lying so blatantly on your desk. Right here!’
Grace looked away.