on earth had all that been about? she wondered as she walked across the open-plan area towards her office.
As always, all the men watched her as she passed, and it irritated her to be scrutinised constantly by them. One or two of them sniggered as she walked past.
Natasha, as always, ignored them, her face icy.
Reaching her office, she went inside and wondered again what that had been about with Dominic Thorne. Well, try as she might, she would never find out through telepathy.
But she allowed herself an admiring little smile, thinking of his dramatic looks, the stark power of those strong bones beneath tanned skin, and the flash of fire in his steel-blue eyes.
Could almost be Russian himself, she thought again, grinning like an idiot, and then shook herself angrily.
Indulging in romantic daydreams was so dangerous to her that she ought to be shot for allowing herself to do it over a man she didn’t know. When would she learn?
Determined not to fantasise about the gorgeous Mr Thorne, she went into work mode, put her handbag beside her desk, switched on the computer, checked the answering service, filled the coffee-machine, and then watered the row of plants on the white windowsill before busying herself opening the morning post.
‘Morning, Miss Carne.’ Ted Leachman came in just as she finished opening the last letter.
‘Morning, sir.’ She barely smiled, because she didn’t much care for Ted Leachman.
He was a sly, lecherous man of about fifty with a bald head, a paunch, and a taste for smelly cigars. If she hadn’t been made redundant from her previous job six months ago, she would leave without a second thought. But as it was, redundancy had shaken her confidence temporarily, and she wasn’t prepared to walk out of this job just yet.
‘Bring the post in. Let’s see what we’ve got…’
Natasha took the post into his office, aware of his nasty dark eyes roving over her as she sat opposite, taking dictation. They worked well for twenty minutes, but he had to ruin it by being personal.
‘I’d love to know what you looked like with your hair down,’ said Leachman with an oily smile. ‘Especially in a sexy little off-the-shoulder number…’
Natasha’s green eyes grew icy. ‘Is that sort of remark acceptable in the workplace? I’ll have to check with Personnel to see if my rights are being infringed.’
His face went an ugly red. ‘I was just trying to be nice. When a man flirts with you, it’s not exactly an insult, you know!’
Natasha’s full dark red mouth tightened. He’d been like this since she had first arrived. So had all the other men in the office. Asking her out all the time, making passes, innuendoes, sly suggestive remarks.
She wouldn’t have minded if they took no for an answer and left her to get on with her life the way she wanted to live it. But they didn’t take no for an answer. If anything, no seemed to be the green light for sexual harassment—or something that came perilously close to it.
‘The letter, sir,’ she said, tapping her pad with her pencil.
‘To hell with the letter!’
Natasha arched haughty brows. ‘Very professional!’
‘A man can’t be professional all the time,’ he snapped. ‘What’s wrong with you? I thought you had Russian blood? Aren’t you supposed to be passionate under that cold, Slavic exterior?’
‘If you don’t stop making personal remarks,’ she said icily, ‘I will have no choice but to pursue this matter through official channels.’
His eyes flared. ‘You make me so angry I don’t know whether to hit you or kiss you!’
‘I know precisely which I’d like to do to you,’ she retorted curtly, ‘and I will, I assure you, if you don’t stop this! A good slap in the face, followed by a lengthy court case over sexual harassment. Unless, of course, you prefer to apologise and return to a more professional footing?’
Suddenly, he blurted out, ‘I’m beginning to think they’re right about you!’
‘Mr Leachman, I really can’t——’
‘You don’t like men, do you?’
Her lashes flickered as the atmosphere tilted abruptly into one that promised something unpleasant.
‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve rejected every man in the building for the simple reason that you’re frigid.’
She felt breathless with shock.
‘We’ve all been trying to seduce you like mad, as you know very well, and we thought one of us, just one, might turn out to be your type. But you don’t have a type, do you? You’re a frigid little iceberg with no time for anything but your pathetic little career, which is cold comfort on those long, lonely nights, isn’t it? But what else can you do? You don’t like men, don’t like sex, don’t like——’
Natasha got to her feet. ‘Apologise or I’ll report you!’
‘Go ahead and report me. Every man in the building knows already!’ He laughed nastily. ‘They call you Natasha Can’t!’
She caught her breath and her face drained of colour as everything suddenly fell into place: the sly looks, the sniggering behind hands, the coy whispering and the——
Oh God, the way Dominic Thorne had looked at her with sexual mockery, smiling as he recognised her position, and realised who she was, the famous frigid fool on floor six.
Natasha Can’t.
No, no, no, no, no…!
They’ve all had bets on you,’ sneered Leachman. ‘Who’d be the lucky guy to make you thaw out with a quick kiss? I might as well tell them to up the stakes to a million to one, because any man who—’
The telephone jangled.
He picked up the receiver. ‘Leachman.’
Natasha stood rooted to the spot with horror, appalled to realise she was shaking, a mixture of rage and humiliation flooding her with such force that she didn’t know whether to scream bloody murder or burst into tears.
‘Yes, sir,’ Leachman was saying into the phone. ‘Right away, sir.’ He banged the receiver down. ‘My God…that was the chairman! Dominic Thorne himself! He wants you to go up to his office, right away.’
It was the last straw for Natasha. Something in her exploded with boiling rage, and she said shakingly through her teeth, ‘Does he?’
Turning on her heel, she stormed out of the office, thinking, So Dominic Thorne has decided to get in on the act, too, has he? Asking me up to his office to make a pass at me and see if the rumours are true?
She slammed out of the office, glaring at the men who sniggered as she passed. This is it, she thought furiously. I’ve had enough. I’m leaving this hell-hole, walking out, job or no job to go to!
But before I do, she thought, jabbing angrily for the call button, I’m going to kick up the biggest scene Dominic Thorne has ever seen.
She knew she was over-reacting, knew her emotions were flying out of her control, but there was nothing she could do about it.
It was all too familiar—the sense of humiliation and helpless rage. To be surrounded by hundreds of people, all of whom had been sniggering at her behind her back, talking about her, placing bets on her, calling her horrible names like Natasha Can’t.
It reminded her of Tony.
That was the problem. It reminded her so vividly of what had happened with Tony that she was completely overpowered by the waves of humiliation and rage—she lost all common sense.
She stormed out of the lift into the luxurious corridor