The Italian's Baby of Passion. Susan Stephens

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       Who did people blame for cock-ups before the advent of computers?

      ‘I don’t know how you got on this line…’ Roman stopped. The lazy smile that formed on his wide sensual mouth held more than a hint of self-derision. Could it be, he wondered, that his display of uncharacteristic tolerance might not be totally unconnected with the fact the gatecrasher had a very attractive voice? In his head those smoky, sultry tones were inextricably linked with long legs, seductive lips and long blonde hair.

      ‘Well, don’t ask me! Perhaps it was your turn to fob me off?’ came the bitter speculation. ‘I’ve been put through to every other blessed person in the building!’

      Goodbye sultry seductress, hello schoolteacher. Oh, well, the harmless fantasy had been nice while it lasted.

      ‘I’ve been fobbed off and made to wait—’

      ‘Do you mind hanging up? This is a private and confidential discussion.’ Some men might like their women bossy—each to his own, that was his motto—only his own taste didn’t run in that direction.

      Unlike his top management people from across Europe who were hanging on every word of this conversation, the woman on the other end of the line didn’t appear to realise that when the head of O’Hagan Construction used this tone the conversation was at an end.

      ‘I’ve not the slightest interest in your discussion,’ the owner of the husky voice promised him with considerable feeling.

      Roman expelled his breath in a hiss of frustrated irritation. He flicked his wrist, exposing the metal banded watch. ‘That’s what all the industrial spies say, however—’

      ‘Is that meant to be a joke?’ the voice demanded, dropping several degrees below freezing. ‘Because I have to tell you I’m really not in the mood. And I warn you if I have to listen to “The Blue Danube” one more time I shall not be responsible for the consequences,’ she warned darkly. ‘Do you want a gibbering female running naked through town on your conscience—?’

      ‘It would depend on the female—’

      ‘I’m so glad you find this amusing.’

      ‘Do you ever let anyone finish what they’re attempting to say?’

      ‘For heaven’s sake, I’m not asking for a personal audience with the Pope, I just want to speak to Mr O’Hagan.’

      Roman leaned his head into his hands. ‘Obviously she doesn’t—’

      ‘I think it’s extremely bad manners to speak about someone in the third person when they…me…I can hear every word you’re saying! As I’ve already explained to umpteen people, this really is important.’

      Roman’s lips twisted in a cynical grimace. Hands clasped behind his head, he leaned back into his upholstered leather chair.

      ‘I’d be surprised if it wasn’t,’ he observed drily.

      The people who wanted to speak to him inevitably considered what they had to say was important. Ninety per cent of them wanted to make him a fortune; all they needed was just a bit of his own money to get their schemes up and running. Very few of these cranks got to tell him about their projects in person because as a rule his calls were screened.

      This was one of the concessions he’d been forced to make to security after he’d badly misjudged a situation. He’d turned up at the office one morning to find his stalker—a mild middle-aged woman whom he, in his wisdom, had considered sad, not dangerous—had already been there complete with kitchen knife delusions and a hostage in the shape of his terrified PA.

      Alice still had the scar. Unconsciously his hand went to his face. Fortunately you couldn’t see hers, but his own reminded him of his poor judgement every time he looked in the mirror.

      ‘Alice,’ he yelled, swivelling his chair around and positioning it to face the open door, ‘I’ve got a damned crank on this line, can you do something about it?’

      ‘I’m not a crank!’ The disembodied voice filled the room with husky outrage.

      ‘Fair enough,’ he drawled. ‘However, you are on a private line so hang up! If you have a message there are channels you can go through.’

      ‘Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? I don’t have time for channels. Has anyone ever told you that you’re an extremely rude man?’

      ‘This has been said, but rarely to my face.’

      ‘Very ironic,’ came the blighting response. ‘But I’m not talking to your face. If I was I might be able…listen, are you Mr O’Hagan?’

      ‘I am Roman O’Hagan. If you’re not going to hang up, do you think you might get round some time in the next hour to telling me who the hell you are? If only so that I can make sure you never have an opportunity to harangue me in the future.’

       This threat produced an audible sigh at the other end. ‘Well, I do think you might have said so straight away instead of wasting my time.’

      ‘Wasting your time…?’ Roman hoped his silent and invisible executives would stay quiet.

      ‘My name is Scarlet Smith.’

      Scarlet…Roman found he was thinking long legs again and, definitely, blonde hair. Not that any amount of hair or legs would make the woman who had this runaway mouth someone he’d ask for a second date…or even a first!

      ‘I manage the crèche at the university.’

      So he’d been halfway right with schoolteacher.

      ‘Your mother is officially opening it today.’

      ‘My mother is in Rome.’ Roman stopped, having a vague recollection, now that he thought about it, of his mother having mentioned she was interrupting her holiday with her family to fly back and fulfil some commitment…it could well have been this one.

      ‘No, she’s in my office, and I’m afraid she isn’t very well.’

      Roman levered his long-limbed frame into an upright position, his languid air vanishing. ‘What’s happened?’

      ‘I don’t mean to alarm you—’

      ‘Well, you are, so get to the point,’ he advised tersely.

      ‘Your mother fainted a little while ago. She seems better now.’

      His mother didn’t faint. ‘What does the doctor say?’ Roman asked, settling his loose Italian-designed jacket smoothly across his broad shoulders.

      ‘She hasn’t seen a doctor.’

      Roman picked up on the defensive note that had entered the attractive voice and his brows drew together in a disapproving straight line.

      ‘Why the hell not?’ he demanded. ‘I need the car,’ he added seamlessly as he turned to his attentively hovering PA, who, like all good СКАЧАТЬ