spaces.
‘Empty nest syndrome at twenty-eight,’ she murmured, annoyed with herself. Defiantly she turned on the radio in the kitchen, glanced in the cupboards to see what she could make for a meal and then headed upstairs to change.
He had a wife. Cormac knew he would have to tread carefully. It was a delicate business, maintaining a deceit.
Still, he thought he knew how to play his secretary. Intimidation was the key to someone like her. He shook his head in contemptuous dismissal.
Miss Chandler was one of those unfortunate people in life whose only purpose was to be used.
Use or be used.
Cormac chose the former. Always.
Despite the satisfaction he felt at obtaining his so-called wife, he also felt a restless surging, an uneasy energy pulsing through him. There were too many variables, possibilities. Not everything was under his control. Yet.
Would his secretary be convincing as his wife? He hadn’t told her just what was required of her; he’d do it on the plane when there was no exit. No escape.
His mouth curved in a knowing smile. He didn’t think she’d balk, but if necessary he could offer her money. No one turned down cold, hard cash.
God knew she could probably use a little extra, even though he considered the salaries he offered to his staff to be generous enough. She wore the same black suit to work every day, clearly something inexpensive off the high street. With her lack of makeup and pale, neat hair, she could certainly use a makeover, or at least some good advice.
Makeover…The word, the thought stilled him. He pictured her showing up tomorrow with a cheap suitcase full of plain, inexpensive little outfits. A secretary’s clothes. Not a wife’s.
Not his wife’s.
A possibility he hadn’t considered. It would be dealt with. Now.
With a muffled curse, he grabbed his coat and headed outside.
She’d turned the radio up loud so at first she didn’t hear the knocking. Not until it become a fierce, methodical pounding.
Lizzie put down the chopping knife, turned down the radio and headed for the door with her heart leaping into her throat.
Who knocked like that? Police or drunks came to mind. She peered out of the hall’s narrow windowpane and gasped in surprise when she saw who it was.
She had her answer. Cormac Douglas knocked like that.
What on earth was he doing here? She’d never seen him outside the office…or the tabloid newspapers.
Taking a deep breath, she ran a hand over her hair, which tumbled loosely over her shoulders, and opened the door.
‘Mr Douglas?’ She eyed him uncertainly, for he looked as grim as ever, his forehead drawn into a frown, his eyebrows an unyielding scowl. He was still a handsome man, she acknowledged, as she had since the first day he’d hired her. Tall, his chocolate-brown hair misted with rain, clear hazel eyes glinting with impatience, his cheekbones high and chiselled, slashed with colour.
‘I need to speak with you. May I come in?’
She nodded, conscious suddenly of her own mussed hair, the jeans and white T-shirt she’d changed into. She touched her cheek and realised a dab of tomato sauce had smeared there.
‘Yes, of course.’
The hall of her parents’ house was long, narrow and high, yet Cormac seemed to fill the gloomy space. He glanced around, and Lizzie knew he was taking in the old, shabby furnishings.
Just then she heard a sizzling sound from the kitchen and, with a murmured excuse, hurried to it.
The tomato sauce was bubbling ominously on the stove and she lowered the gas flame before turning around.
She gave a little gasp of surprise; Cormac stood in the doorway, taking in the pathetic little scene in one cursory sweep of his contemptuous gaze.
Lizzie found herself flushing. She could just imagine what Cormac was thinking. Thursday night and she was home alone, making a sad little meal for one, the radio her only company.
‘I’m sorry. I was just making some dinner,’ she explained stiltedly. Jazz music played tinnily from the radio and she snapped it off. ‘Do you…do you want some?’
Cormac simply stared, raising one eyebrow in silent, scornful disbelief. Lizzie bit her lip, flushing again. Of course he must already have dinner arrangements at some chic restaurant, a far cry from here. From her.
According to the tabloids—as well as the voicemail messages that were occasionally left on the office machine—she knew he was with a different woman nearly every time he was seen, usually at a nightclub or high-class restaurant.
So why was he with her tonight? Here?
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, not really sure why she was apologising. ‘Anyway…may I take your coat?’
Cormac was still looking at her, sizing her up in a way she wasn’t used to. Lizzie tried not to fidget. He’d never really looked at her before, she realised. She was simply someone to bring papers, answer telephones. Now he was watching her, eyes narrowed, seeming as if he was deciding whether she passed or failed.
Passed or failed what?
His hands were thrust deep into his pockets and the shoulders of his overcoat were damp, his hair mussed from the rain.
‘All right.’ He shrugged his coat off and handed it to her. ‘Put that away and then I need to talk to you.’
Lizzie nodded stiffly, feeling like a maid in her own home. She went to hang his coat in the hall. A faint tang of cedar and soap wafted from it and Lizzie felt a strange tingling in her chest, a tightening she didn’t really like or understand.
She didn’t know this man, she realised. At all. And she had no idea what he was doing here. What could he possibly want to talk about?
Back in the kitchen, Cormac stood in the same place. He was completely still yet he radiated energy, impatience.
His hard hazel gaze snapped back to her with a cold, precise determination as soon as she entered the kitchen.
‘I forgot to mention some salient details regarding our trip.’ He paused, raking his fingers through his damp hair. ‘I’m travelling to Sint Rimbert to court an important commission. Jan Hassell, who owns most of the island, has finally decided to build a luxury resort. It’s important to him, of course, that the architect he chooses presents the right…appearance.’ He paused, looking at her as if he expected a reply, but Lizzie was baffled.
‘Yes, I see,’ she said after a moment, although she didn’t really.
Cormac let out an impatient breath. ‘Do you? Then perhaps you realise that I can’t have a secretary who gets her clothes from the rag basket.’
Colour surged into Lizzie’s face. It was galling to realise that he didn’t think she possessed the proper clothes for such a trip. Even worse was the realisation that undoubtedly she didn’t. She swallowed. ‘Perhaps you could tell me what I need to bring,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster.
Cormac shook his head. ‘I can guarantee, sweetheart, that you don’t have it.’
Lizzie lifted her chin. He’d never called her sweetheart before, and she didn’t like the casual, callous endearment. ‘If I’m not stylish enough for you,’ she said shortly, ‘there are other secretaries from the Edinburgh office who could oblige you.’
‘I’m sure there are,’ Cormac returned, ‘but I want you.’
He spoke flatly, yet Lizzie felt a frisson of awareness, excitement, at his words. I want you.
Because of your typing speed, idiot, she told herself. And