Past Passion. PENNY JORDANЧитать онлайн книгу.

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      CHAPTER ONE

      AS NICOLA climbed out of her small car, she smoothed down the skirt of her neat suit before glancing anxiously towards the offices.

      It was ten to nine, and the car park was almost full; today the new owner of the company would be making his first official appearance. Nicola had been on holiday when the shockingly unexpected negotiations for the take-over of her employers had taken place, but her workmates had been full of gossip about what had gone on.

      It was well known locally that Alan Hardy, the owner of the small building firm, had virtually lost interest in the business following the tragic death of his son, but no one had expected that he would sell out to someone from outside the area, to someone, moreover, to whom apparently the acquisition of their small local company was merely another addition to his growing business empire.

      Her own job was safe enough, or so she had been assured. She had worked for Alan as his secretary-cum-PA ever since she had returned from the city over eight years ago, and very much enjoyed her work, even though lately she had found herself having to double-check almost everything her boss gave her to do.

      Some of the staff were angered by the way Alan had kept the take-over a secret from them; she herself had known nothing of what was going on but, instead of anger, she felt sympathy both for Alan and for his wife, Mary.

      The death of their son in a car accident had destroyed their lives and their hopes for the future. It was only natural that Alan should have lost heart...lost interest in the business.

      She sighed faintly to herself. She had been feeling reasonably confident about her ability to work in harmony with her prospective new boss, whom she had been informed would probably put a manager in charge of the day-to-day running of the firm, only actually visiting them himself once a week, so that in effect she would be working for the manager he appointed; but over the weekend, Gordon, her boyfriend, had expressed unflattering doubts about her suitability as the right kind of secretary for a high-flying entrepreneur.

      His comments had made her angry, but she had suppressed her feelings. Gordon was the kind of man who had a rather old-fashioned attitude towards women. Nicola blamed his mother for that. She was one of those women who, while appearing to be helpless and clinging, was in fact extremely manipulative and domineering.

      Depressingly, she was beginning to be conscious more and more these days that the time she spent with Gordon often left her feeling irritated and at odds with him.

      They had known each other almost all their lives, although it was only in the last two years that they had started seeing one another on a regular basis.

      At Christmas, Gordon had made noises about them considering getting engaged, but she had avoided the issue.

      The trouble was that living in such a small community made it difficult for a single woman to enjoy a varied social life without the addition of a male partner.

      Single women over the age of twenty-five and under the age of thirty were looked upon with a certain degree of suspicion by some of the local die-hards.

      Nicola had her women friends, of course—girls she had been at school with who had since married and produced families—and, if she was honest, she preferred the fun she had in their company to the often dull dates she had with Gordon.

      Her mother had already commented rather drily that a lifetime of Gordon might seem a very long time indeed, and Nicola was inclined to agree with her, but Gordon represented respectability and old-fashioned morality, and she had her own reasons for believing that she needed those attributes in her life—that Gordon, no matter how dull and boring he might be, no matter how difficult she might find it to get on with his mother, was someone she was very, very lucky to have in her life.

      As she walked towards the office-block, pleasantly acknowledging the ‘good mornings’ of the men in the yard, while ignoring the way they looked at her legs, she reflected uncomfortably that, like her clothes, her relationship with Gordon was part of her life—not because it gave her pleasure but because it made her feel safe.

      She was well past the men now, but just as she was about to open the door to her office-block she heard one of them laughing.

      Immediately her face flushed. She had no idea what might have provoked their laughter; it might not even have been her, but the instant she heard it she wanted to run...to hide herself away somewhere.

      It was ridiculous, this burden she carried, which she could never allow herself to put down, and all because of one mistake, one silly adolescent error of judgement... It didn’t matter how many times she tried to reason with herself that that one mistake did not mean she had to punish herself for the rest of her life; she had never been able to put it out of her mind and ignore it.

      In her moments of deepest despair and misery she even wondered if it might not be worthwhile trying to talk to someone about it; but then the old, familiar panic would come back, and she would remember how hard she had worked to make sure that no one, but no one knew what she had done, how hard she had worked to make sure that no one, especially no man who looked at her, could ever, ever possibly think of her as the kind of woman who...

      She realised as she hurried towards her office that she was actually physically trembling.

      Of all days, why on earth did she