The Boss's Secret Mistress. Alison Fraser

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      True enough, Tory supposed. Alex was sliding downhill so fast he could have won a place on an Olympic bobsleigh team.

      ‘Anyway, I’ll toddle off back to my desk—’ Simon suited actions to his words ‘—and sharpen wits and pencil before our American friend arrives.’

      Tory frowned. ‘Has Alex come in yet?’

      ‘Is the Pope a Muslim?’ he answered flippantly, then shook his head as Tory picked up the phone. ‘I shouldn’t bother if I were you.’

      But Tory felt some loyalty to Alex. He had given her her job at Eastwich.

      She rang his mistress’s flat, then every other number she could possibly think of, in the vain hope of finding Alex before Eastwich’s new boss descended on them.

      ‘Too late, ma petite,’ Simon announced with satisfaction as Colin Mathieson, the senior production executive, appeared at the glass door of their office. He gave a brief courtesy knock before entering. A stranger who had to be the American followed him.

      He wasn’t at all what Tory had expected. She’d been prepared for a sharp-suited, forty something year old with a sun-bed tan and a roving eye.

      That was why she stared. Well, that was what she told herself later. At the time she just stared.

      Tall. Very tall. Six feet two or three. Almost casual in khaki trousers and an open-necked shirt. Dark hair, straight and slicked back, and a long angular face. Blue eyes, a quite startling hue. A mouth slanted with either humour or cynicism. In short, the best-looking man Tory had ever seen in her life.

      Tory had never felt it before, an instant overwhelming attraction. She wasn’t ready for it. She was transfixed. She was reduced to gaping stupidity.

      The newcomer met her gaze and smiled as if he knew. No doubt it happened all the time. No doubt, being God’s gift, he was used to it.

      Colin Mathieson introduced her, ‘Tory Lloyd, Production Assistant,’ and she recovered sufficiently to raise a hand to the one stretched out to her. ‘Lucas Ryecart, the new chief executive of Eastwich.’

      Her hand disappeared in the warm dry clasp of his. He towered above her. She fought a feeling of insignificance. She couldn’t think of a sane, sensible thing to say.

      ‘Tory’s worked for us for about a year,’ Colin continued. ‘Shows great promise. Had quite an input to the documentary on single mothers you mentioned seeing.’

      Lucas Ryecart nodded and, finally dropping Tory’s hand, commented succinctly, ‘Well-made programme, Miss Lloyd…or is it Mrs?’

      ‘Miss,’ Colin supplied at her silence.

      The American smiled in acknowledgement. ‘Though perhaps a shade too controversial in intention.’

      It took Tory a moment to realise he was still talking about the documentary and another to understand the criticism, before she at last emerged from brainless-guppy mode to point out, ‘It’s a controversial subject.’

      Lucas Ryecart looked surprised by the retaliation but not unduly put out. ‘True, and the slant was certainly a departure from the usual socialist dogma. Scarcely sympathetic.’

      ‘We had no bias.’ Tory remained on the defensive.

      ‘Of course not,’ he appeared to placate her, then added, ‘You just gave the mothers free speech and let them condemn themselves.’

      ‘We let them preview it,’ she claimed. ‘None of them complained.’

      ‘Too busy enjoying their five minutes’ fame, I expect,’ he drawled back.

      His tone was more dry than accusing, and he smiled again.

      Tory didn’t smile back. She was struggling with a mixture of temper and guilt, because, of course, he was right.

      The single mothers in question had been all too ready to talk and it hadn’t taken much editing to make them sound at best ignorant, at worst uncaring. Away from the camera and the lights, they had merely seemed lonely and vulnerable.

      Tory had realised the interviews had been neither fair nor particularly representative and had suggested Alex tone them down. But Alex had been in no mood to listen. His wife had just left him, taking their two young children, and single mothers hadn’t been flavour of the month.

      Lucas Ryecart caught her brooding expression and ran on, ‘Never mind…Tory, is it?’

      Tory nodded silently, wishing he’d stuck to Miss Lloyd. Or did he feel he had to be on first-name terms with someone before he put the boot in?

      ‘Tory,’ he repeated, ‘in documentary television it’s always difficult to judge where to draw the line. Interview the mass murderer and are you explaining or glorifying his crimes? Interview the victims’ families and do you redress the balance or simply make television out of people’s grief?’

      ‘I would refuse to do either,’ Tory stated unequivocally at this mini-lecture.

      ‘Really?’ He raised a dark, straight brow and looked at her as if he were now assessing her as trouble.

      It was Simon who came to her rescue, though not intentionally. ‘I wouldn’t. I’d do anything for a good story.’

      Having been virtually ignored, Simon thought it time to draw attention to himself.

      Ryecart’s eyes switched from Tory to Simon and Colin Mathieson performed the introductions. ‘This is Simon Dixon. Alex’s number two.’

      ‘Simon.’ The American nodded.

      ‘Mr Ryecart.’ Simon smiled confidently. ‘Or do you wish us to call you Lucas? Being American, you must find English formality so outmoded.’

      Tory had to give credit where credit was due: Simon had nerve.

      Lucas Ryecart, however, scarcely blinked as he replied smoothly, ‘Mr Ryecart will do for now.’

      Simon was left a little red-faced, muttering, ‘Well, you’re the boss.’

      ‘Quite,’ Ryecart agreed succinctly, but didn’t labour the point as he offered a conciliatory smile and hand to Simon.

      Simon—the creep—accepted both.

      It was Colin Mathieson who directed at them, ‘Do you know where we might find Alex? He isn’t in his office.’

      ‘He never is,’ muttered Simon in an undertone designed to be just audible.

      Tory shot him a silencing look before saying, ‘I think he’s checking out locations for a programme.’

      ‘Which programme?’ Colin enquired. ‘The one on ward closures? I thought we’d abandoned it.’

      ‘Um…no.’ Tory decided to keep the lies general. ‘It’s something at the conception stage, about…’ She paused for inspiration and flushed as she felt the American’s eyes СКАЧАТЬ