straight-faced and earnest. ‘It’s the slavish adoration I’d fall down on—you see, I’ve only ever been on the receiving end of that sort of thing.’ She gave an apologetic little shrug to round off her words.
‘So, you actually do possess a sense of humour,’ he murmured with a deep, rumbling chuckle.
‘Who says I was being humorous?’ queried Rosanne innocently, while a censorious voice from within warned her that, however much in need she might feel of distraction from the pressures she was under, kidding herself that she could get away with a bit of mild flirtation with a man like Damian Sheridan only went to show how dangerously naïve she could be where men were concerned.
His broad shoulders rose then fell in the merest of shrugs. ‘You still haven’t got around to telling me what was bothering you a few moments ago.’
Caught off guard, Rosanne accepted that she would only flounder unconvincingly if she didn’t opt for honesty.
‘It’s not exactly bothering me,’ she began—and realised exasperatedly that she was in danger of floundering anyway. ‘It’s probably my lack of experience in this job—this is the first time I’ve done this sort of work on my own...I’ve always been an assistant to someone experienced until now.’
‘So—what’s your problem?’ he demanded with no trace of sympathy.
‘I haven’t a problem,’ she retorted sharply. ‘It’s just that Mrs Cranleigh—’
‘Hester!’ he cut in exasperatedly. ‘Everyone calls her Hester and I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s asked you to do likewise.’
‘And I try to remember!’ exclaimed Rosanne defensively. ‘It’s just that I’m not used to calling someone of her age by her first name!’ Especially not her own grandmother, she reminded herself in silent resentment.
‘So—what’s Hester’s problem?’
‘I didn’t say she had a problem either,’ protested Rosanne. ‘It’s just that I find her attitude to her husband’s biography a little unusual. I mean, I thought she’d be doing the actual writing herself, but she tells me she’s not.’
‘Cedric Lamont’s agreed to do that for her,’ stated Damian, very much to her surprise. ‘Hester’s no writer.’
‘So why am I working here with Mrs...with Hester, instead of with Mr Lamont?’ she asked in bemusement.
‘You’re the one who works for Bryant’s, not me,’ he retorted with a shrug, then added, ‘But I do happen to know that Lamont’s adored Hester from afar ever since they were kids—and I’m damned sure a biographer of his stature wouldn’t have touched the saintly George’s life history with a barge-pole if it had been anyone other than Hester asking him to do so. He’s obviously made it plain, though, that he’s not prepared to do any of the donkey work.’
‘Yes, but—’ Rosanne broke off with a sigh of frustration, leaning back heavily in her chair. ‘Perhaps you’re right; her heart isn’t really in it.’
‘And that’s causing you problems, is it?’ he queried in tones of biting sarcasm. ‘How terribly inconsiderate of the old dear.’ There was scorn burning in his eyes as he continued. ‘I warned you from the start no good would come from raking up old hurts, so don’t be looking for my shoulder to cry on now that Hester’s started coming round to my way of thinking.’
‘I can’t think of any reason for you to say she’s coming round to your way of thinking,’ snapped Rosanne. ‘And, as for raking up old hurts, you know perfectly well that nothing I’ve covered really touches Mr Cranleigh’s private life in any depth—’ She broke off, frowning slightly, then added, ‘I suppose she’ll be arranging with Mr Lamont for the inclusion of the more personal aspects of his life?’
‘I’ve already told you, Lamont’s not interested in doing any of the donkey work,’ he muttered. ‘And besides, what’s wrong with this simply being a record of George’s public achievements?’
‘Because it’s meant to be a biography of the man,’ retorted Rosanne impatiently. ‘And a biography—’
‘I’m perfectly capable of defining the word for myself, thank you,’ he interrupted caustically. ‘Though it appears that a sanitised version of his public life is all his faithful is going to get,’ he continued, his expression almost smug. ‘I say that with some confidence because Hester hasn’t handed the personal diaries over to you—and, not having done so by now, I can’t see her ever doing so.’
‘Are you talking about Hester’s own diaries?’ asked Rosanne, her uncertainty betrayed in her voice.
He gave a humourless laugh as he shook his head.
‘What you’ve got are little more than the old boy’s desk diaries—even his secretaries, you must have noticed, made jottings in them!’ he exclaimed derisively. ‘But the saintly George was given to “Dear Diary” sessions of a much more private nature. And it’s in those that you would find the truth—if ever you got your eager little hands on them.’
‘What do you mean—the truth?’ demanded Rosanne, her head reeling, though not entirely from the shock of learning there were further diaries, the existence of which Hester had never even hinted at. So much seemed to be hinted at in Damian’s sneering words.
‘For God’s sake, the man was a politician!’ he exclaimed dismissively. ‘Yet one, according to those records you’ve been going through, whose career flowed onwards and upwards without so much as a ripple of any form of contention to ruffle its smooth progress.’
‘Are you saying he was dishonest in some way?’ challenged Rosanne, the barely acknowledged hope that at last she might hear something concrete dying in her as she realised that this was probably yet another example of his venting his spleen against the man he so disliked.
‘Yes! Use your head, damn it, Ros!’ he exclaimed exasperatedly. ‘I’m not for one moment suggesting he was a crook. But can you think of a single prominent politician who hasn’t, at one time or another during his career, been through a sticky patch?’
‘No, but—’
‘No—precisely,’ he snapped. ‘It’s common knowledge there were members of his own party who would have happily lynched him over the farm subsidy fiasco. Then there was—’
‘All right, you’ve made your point,’ cut in Rosanne impatiently. ‘But you can’t label him dishonest just because he viewed his political career through the same lavishly tinted spectacles all politicians tend to wear!’ My God, she thought weakly, they were discussing the man she loathed above all others—and she was virtually reduced to sticking up for him!
‘I obviously made a serious error when I judged you to possess a brain,’ he informed her disgustedly. ‘For God’s sake, woman, can’t you see that the claptrap politicians come out with is one thing, but that dishing up that same claptrap in a biography is an entirely different matter?’
‘You may consider it your God-given right to speak to people in that manner,’ exclaimed Rosanne angrily, leaping to her feet, ‘but I have no intention whatever of listening to any more of it!’
‘Sit down!’ he roared, on his feet and towering above her with a speed that startled her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, their weight forcing her back down on to the chair. ‘How the hell else do you expect to be spoken to?’ he demanded aggressively, leaning back against the desk-top as he removed his hands and glowered down at her. ‘You should know me well enough by now to know that I’m not in the least interested in the ups and downs of George Cranleigh’s career...but I’m darned sure Bryant Publishing is.’
Rosanne’s flashed him a murderous look.
‘If I were you, darling,’ he murmured silkily, ‘and I wanted to hang on to this job for a little longer than six months, I’d be letting Bryant’s