The Mistress Contract. Helen Brooks

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      The butterflies joined together in an explosive tarantella, and Sephy forced herself to concentrate very hard on a point just over his left shoulder as she smiled brightly and walked across to his desk. ‘Correspondence for signature,’ she squeaked, clearing her throat before adding, ‘The post goes at six, so if you could look at them now, please? I didn’t realise what the time was.’

      He glanced at the gold Rolex on his wrist. ‘Hell!’

      ‘What’s the matter?’ Sephy asked guardedly.

      ‘I’ve a dinner engagement at seven,’ he muttered abstractedly. ‘Look, ring her, would you? Explain about Madge, and that things are out of kilter here, and say I’ll be half an hour late. She won’t like it—’ he grimaced slightly ‘—but don’t stand any nonsense.’

      ‘Ring who?’

      ‘What?’ He clearly expected her to be a mind-reader, as no doubt the faithful Madge was. ‘Oh, Caroline de Menthe; the number’s in here.’

      He threw the obligatory little black book which he’d fetched out of a drawer across the desk.

      ‘Right.’ She took a deep breath and let it out evenly. She had heard of Caroline de Menthe. Everyone in the world had heard of the statuesque French model, who had the body of a goddess and the face of an angel and who was the toast of London and every other capital city besides. And she was his date. Of course she was. She was the latest prize on the circuit so she’d be bound to be, wouldn’t she? Sephy thought with a shrewishness that surprised her.

      Once back at her desk she thumbed through the book, trying to ignore the reams of female names, and then, once she had found Caroline de Menthe, dialled the London number—there were several international numbers under the same name. She spoke politely into the receiver when she got through to the Savoy switchboard.

      It was a moment or two before Reception connected her, and then a sultry, heavily accented voice said lazily, ‘Caroline de Menthe.’

      ‘Good afternoon, Miss de Menthe,’ Sephy said quickly. ‘Mr Quentin has asked me to call you to say he is sorry but he’ll be half an hour late this evening. His secretary has been taken ill and he is running a little behind schedule. He will pick you up at about half past seven if that is all right?’

      ‘And you are what? An office girl?’ The seductive sultriness was gone; the other woman’s tone was distinctly vinegary now.

      ‘I am standing in for Mr Quentin’s secretary,’ Sephy stated quietly, forcing herself not to react to the overt rudeness.

      There was a moment’s silence, and then the model said curtly, ‘Tell Mr Quentin I will be waiting for him,’ and the phone went dead.

      Charming. Sephy stared at the receiver in her hand for a moment before slowly replacing it. Caroline de Menthe might be beautiful and famous and have the world at her feet, but she didn’t have the manners of an alley cat. She glanced at the interconnecting door as she wrinkled her small nose. And that was the sort of woman he liked? Still, it was absolutely nothing to do with her. She was just his temporary secretary—very temporary.

      The telephone rang, cutting off further deliberations, and when she realised it was the hospital asking for Mr Quentin she put the call through to him immediately.

      It was a minute or two before the call ended and he buzzed her at once. She opened the door to see him sitting back in his chair with a stunned look on his dark face. ‘It’s cancer,’ he said slowly. ‘The poor old girl’s got cancer.’

      ‘Oh, no. Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Sephy said helplessly. He looked poleaxed and positively grey, and she was amazed how much he obviously cared.

      ‘They think it’s operable and that she’ll be okay in the long run, but it’ll be a long job,’ he said flatly, after taking a hard pull of air. And then he made Sephy jump a mile as he drove his fist down on to the desk with enough force to make the papers rise an inch or two. ‘Damn stupid woman,’ he ground out through clenched teeth. ‘Why didn’t she say something? The consultant said she must have been in pain for some weeks.’

      ‘She probably thought it was viral, something like that,’ Sephy pointed out sensibly. ‘No one likes to think the worst.’

      ‘Spare me the benefit of inane female logic,’ he bit back with cutting coldness.

      She swallowed hard. Okay, so he was obviously upset about Madge, and she would ignore his rudeness this time, but if he thought she was going to be a doormat he’d got another think coming! She wouldn’t take that from anyone.

      ‘Hell!’ It was an angry bark. ‘This is going to hit her hard. Her job is her life, it’s what makes her tick, and she’s been with me from the start. She’ll hate the idea of being laid low, and she’s got no friends, just a sister somewhere or other.’

      Sephy remained silent. This was awful for Madge, and difficult for him, but once bitten, twice shy. She was saying nothing.

      ‘So…’ He rose from the desk and turned to the window so his back was towards her. ‘She’s covered by the company’s private health plan, but make sure she’s in the best room available; any additional costs will be covered by me personally. And send her some flowers and chocolates and a selection of magazines. Is there anything else you, as another woman, would think she’d like?’ he asked, turning to face her with characteristic abruptness.

      She stared at him. ‘A visit?’ she suggested pointedly.

      His eyes narrowed into blue slits and he was grimly silent for a full ten seconds before he said expressionlessly, ‘I don’t like hospitals,’ as though that was the end of the matter.

      ‘If she’s as lacking in friends as you said she’d still like a visit,’ Sephy said stolidly. ‘She must be feeling very vulnerable tonight, and probably a bit frightened.’

      She saw his square jaw move as his teeth clenched hard and then he sighed irritably, a scowl crossing his harsh attractive face. ‘She’s probably exhausted right now,’ he snapped tightly. ‘It doesn’t have to be tonight, does it?’

      Sephy thought of the ravishing Caroline de Menthe waiting at the Savoy and smiled sweetly. ‘That’s up to you, of course, but a little bit of reassurance at a time like this goes a long way,’ she said with saccharine gentleness.

      She gathered up the pile of correspondence, now duly signed, as she spoke, and then felt awful about the covert bitchiness when he said, his tone distracted, ‘That’s excellent work by the way, Seraphina. I trust you’ve no objection to standing in for Madge for the next few weeks?’

      She hesitated for a moment, his big, broad-shouldered body and rugged face swimming into focus as she raised her head from the papers in her hands, and then, as he raised enquiring black eyebrows she forced herself to smile coolly. ‘Of course not,’ she lied with careful composure. ‘If you think I’m up to the job, that is.’

      ‘I don’t think there is any doubt about that,’ he returned drily, the deep-blue eyes which resembled a cold summer sea watching her intently. ‘No doubt at all.’

      And this time he didn’t smile.

      CHAPTER TWO

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