At The Millionaire's Bidding. Lee WilkinsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
her head she could still hear the voice saying, “It’s a pity she’s got that ugly scar”…and sure he was just baiting her, she answered recklessly, ‘I do own a mirror.’
‘So how would you describe yourself?’
‘Colourless. Nondescript. Scarred.’
‘It’s no use looking into a mirror if you’re prejudiced. Try looking into other people’s eyes to see what their opinion is.’ His glance fell on her modest ring. ‘Your fiancé’s for instance.’
She had looked into Dave’s eyes and seen only her own opinion reflected there.
Almost before the depressing thought had crossed her mind, Robert Carrington had returned to his chair and was regarding her steadily across the desk.
As though it had branded her, she could still feel his touch, and she was forced to repress a shiver while she struggled to regain some semblance of composure.
Though her every instinct urged her to run and hide, she knew she must make her peace with this tough, complex man sitting opposite.
It was necessary.
Desperate to get back on course, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’ve strayed from the point, and I’m sure you’re much too busy to waste your time.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t describe it as wasted,’ he objected lazily. ‘Sometimes it’s useful to digress a little. It helps to really focus the mind.’
She counted to ten. ‘Well, now we’ve digressed a little, perhaps we can get back to business?’ Her tone, though pleasant, implied that she hadn’t got all afternoon to waste, if he had.
His tawny eyes narrowed and, without further ado, he called her bluff. ‘Well, I’ll quite understand if you’re too busy to give me any more of your time—’
‘No! No, that’s not what I meant. Of course I’m not too busy.’ The hasty interruption betrayed her desperation all too clearly.
Wanting only to put her head down on her arms and weep tears of anger and frustration, she sat up straighter and lifted her chin.
‘Mr Carrington, you must know we want this job, and I can only assure you that if you give us the chance we’ll do our very best.’
And it would have to be their best. She was already convinced that he wasn’t the kind of man who would be prepared to settle for anything less than the moon, if that’s what he’d been promised.
Running long fingers over his smoothly shaven jaw, he asked thoughtfully, ‘How long have you been in business?’
Knowing it was useless to prevaricate, she answered reluctantly, ‘Not quite a year.’
Glancing around, as though weighing up his surroundings, he asked, ‘And you’ve had this office for the same length of time?’
He sounded far from impressed.
‘Yes,’ she answered, and thought wryly that it was just as well he hadn’t seen it when they’d first taken it over.
The walls had been painted a stomach-turning green, an abandoned rusty-grey filing cabinet had leaned drunkenly against the wall, and worn linoleum in squares of ginger and black had adorned the floor.
While Dave had gone out searching for orders, she had set about refurbishing the place.
The cabinet and linoleum disposed of, a good second-hand carpet, a desk and two chairs, a couple of coats of white paint, and a few cheerful pot plants had made a lot of difference.
By the time they had installed the reconditioned computer equipment it was starting to look good, and she had been pleased with the result until she saw it through Robert Carrington’s eyes.
‘Hmm,’ he said. Then, ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me how Smith and Benson came into being?’
Though politely phrased, she recognised it as an order rather than a request.
She wanted to look forward rather than back. But unless she was prepared to go along with this difficult and arrogant man, there might be nothing to look forward to.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she told him the bare bones of it. ‘It was Dave’s idea. The technical side of computers and communications has always been his forte. He’s brilliant at it.’
‘What about you?’
‘I knew nothing whatsoever about business, but so we could go into partnership, and I could pull my weight, he encouraged me to take a course in practical business studies.’
‘What did that cover?’
‘Office equipment and layouts, how to instal and use the latest technology, and computer programming. Rather to my surprise, I found it both interesting and enjoyable.’
‘Which college did you go to?’
‘I didn’t go to college. I went to special evening classes.’
‘For how long?’
‘Almost a year.’
‘Why evening classes?’
When she didn’t immediately answer, he added, ‘It just struck me that was the hard way to do it.’
‘I needed to keep working to support myself.’
‘What kind of job were you doing?’
‘I was working in a hotel.’
‘As a receptionist?’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘You have an attractive voice, and you speak well.’
Dave had said much the same thing.
Seeing Robert Carrington was waiting for her affirmative, a kind of stubborn pride made her inform him flatly, ‘As a matter of fact I worked in the kitchens.’
‘All the time you were doing the course?’
‘Yes.’
‘No parental help?’
‘No.’
‘Couldn’t Benson help to support you?’
‘He wasn’t in a position to.’ In fact she had supported Dave during his final year at college.
‘So what made you decide to go into business, rather than just have a job?’
‘It was something we both wanted to do. I suppose we liked the idea of being free to work for ourselves…’
In truth she had, at first, only wanted something that was hers. A small business of some kind, a second-hand bookshop, or a tearoom perhaps, ideally with some living-accommodation over it.
Security and independence.
Only later had her dream widened to include Dave.
She had been a quiet, introvert child who, as Matron put it, “lived inside her own head”. Though rated as highly intelligent and bright, her grades at school had been only a little above average. She had shone at nothing.
When she finally left the classroom to start work in the kitchens at the children’s home, her sights already set on the future, it had been without too many regrets.
As soon as she was old enough, she had thanked the staff for their years of care and escaped from the grey drabness of Sunnyside, taking with her nothing but a few clothes, an abiding love of books and music, and a knowledge of plain cooking.
She had found herself a job as a kitchen assistant in a busy hotel less than a mile away from Sunnyside. The hours were long and the work hard, but with the job went a small room.
It was dark and draughty and overlooked the yard and the dustbins, but it was hers. Her refuge. Her private domain.