go?’
She closed her front door; Matt Hearne stood back to allow her to go down the stairs first. In the communal hallway of the apartment block they met one of her neighbours, a young man in jeans and a vivid striped sweater, who gave her a smile, nodding.
‘Hi, Bee.’
‘Hello, Gary,’ she said coldly, stalking past. A medical student at a London teaching hospital, he was the only son of wealthy parents who had spoilt him.
One night soon after he’d arrived he had come back drunk and tried to push his way into her flat. They had had quite a tussle until she managed to thrust him out and lock her door. He had banged for ten minutes before giving up and going downstairs. He had a studio flat at the back of the ground floor where he played heavy metal rock, far too loud, infuriating the other tenants, who would have had him evicted if the whole house had not been owned by one of Gary’s doting aunts.
To do him credit, Gary had come up next day with a bunch of flowers and an apology, but Bianca had kept him at a distance ever since. She did not want a repeat performance of his attempt to get into her flat.
Matt Hearne gave her an amused look, asking softly, ‘An admirer?’
‘A nuisance,’ was all she said, going out of the building.
A sleek white sports car was parked outside the gate, under the street lamp. Bianca eyed it appreciatively, slowing to stop beside it. ‘Is that yours?’
He shot her a sideways glance. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Love it,’ she said, wishing she owned it. It must cost a fortune, which would be right out of her reach. ‘It looks very fast. What can it do?’
‘A hundred and fifty, if I put my foot down.’
‘Please don’t, tonight,’ she said.
He walked round to open the passenger door and held it open while she got into the car, eyeing her long legs with sensual appraisal. Bianca wished she had not worn such a short dress. Sitting down in the low-slung vehicle instantly made her skirt rise. Hurriedly, she smoothed her skirt down to her knees again while Matt Hearne watched, his mouth twitching with mocking enjoyment.
He shut the door at last and came round to get behind the wheel, his lean body gracefully adjusting to the driver’s seat. His long legs almost touched hers, his left arm brushed her elbow, and she hurriedly jerked away. She was intensely conscious of being close to him in a very small space, of the light fragrance of whatever aftershave he was wearing, of his slow, calm breathing, his hands lightly resting on the wheel, the possibility of contact, of touching him.
Her mouth was suddenly dry. She stared at his hands—powerful, elegant, a sprinkle of dark hair on the backs of them, his long fingers shifting to start the car with a roar like a lion.
The silence was making her ears beat with hot blood. As he drove off, fast, she swallowed and asked, ‘Where are we going?’
‘My favourite restaurant, Les Sylphides…it only opened this year but the cooking is marvellous. French provincial, with new twists. I hope you like French food?’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘We often eat it. I’m surprised I’ve never heard of this place. I thought I knew every good restaurant in town.’
‘This isn’t really in town. It’s on the edge of Epping Forest, at Loughton—do you know Essex?’
‘Vaguely. Well, I know where it is, east of the city, but I’ve never actually been over there.’
‘It’s a very special place. Loughton was a village; now it’s a growing suburb but still has a village atmosphere.’
‘Will it take long to get there?’ She had no real idea of the outskirts of London; she rarely left the centre of the city.
‘Not at this time of night. Half an hour or so. And the great point is, we aren’t likely to see anyone who knows either of us so we’ll be able to talk without alerting anybody to what’s going on.’ He laughed curtly. ‘Although, of course, there are whispers already. If you start buying up shares, forcing the price up, the market soon knows what’s afoot. But as neither of our companies have given a statement to the press, so far the rumours are only that—rumours. The longer we can put off an announcement the better. It will only cloud the issue if we have the press on our backs.’
‘I agree. We don’t want press intervention, either.’ Bianca stared out of the car at the faintly dirty, shabby streets through which they were driving. This was a part of London she had never seen before. ‘Where are we now?’ Scraps of torn paper, crumpled drink cans, fastfood boxes blew along the gutters, and there was an air of decay and indifference on all sides.
He gave her an odd look. ‘Haven’t you ever been here before? This is the East End.’
She should have guessed. ‘Not very attractive, is it?’
‘You may not think so. Over the last hundred years it has looked like heaven to the immigrants from Europe, the Jews who fled from Eastern Europe, during the twenties and thirties, and now the place is home to Pakistanis and West Indians, not to mention some streets where you find nothing but Cypriots, both Greek and Turkish, and Africans whose countries are caught up in civil war. There are so many ethnic shops and restaurants here, it is like the world in miniature.’
‘Is Loughton like this?’
‘No, Loughton is way out of town, and much of it has been built since the war.’ He gave her one of his slow, amused smiles, and she couldn’t help noticing his charm, a quality Don really did not share. ‘You obviously aren’t a Londoner.’
‘No, I’m from the West Country…’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Dorset, actually—Lyme Regis.’
‘Ah, French Lieutenant’s Woman territory.’
‘That’s the place. It’s lovely.’
‘Did you grow up looking for dinosaurs? Aren’t there lots of them in the cliffs at Lyme Bay?’
‘Well, lots of fossils, yes. And we did do expeditions to hunt for fossils, from school.’
‘That would have prepared you for working for Don Heston. He’s a bit of a fossil himself—into moneymaking for shareholders rather than creating jobs for people. The red-in-tooth-and-claw capitalist only cares about making money. A modern boss looks to making his company work for the people he employs, which means both making money and giving staff a good working environment.’
‘Don is a very good boss, Mr Hearne.’
‘Matt.’
She gave him a cool stare. ‘Matt. Don is very go-ahead and modern. I couldn’t ask to work for a better boss. He has encouraged me from the day I joined the firm.’
His long mouth curled mockingly. ‘Yes, I noticed the interest he took in you.’
Coins of red appeared in her cheeks. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Don’t try to tell me his interest is purely philanthropic because I wouldn’t believe you. You’re lovely, and Don Heston wants you.’
‘That’s insulting! But then men like you think women are only good for one thing, don’t you?’
‘Oh, I think women are good for many things,’ he drawled. ‘We can talk about that later. For now, tell me how you got the job with Heston? Did he pick you out of the typing pool? I know I would have done.’
Frozen-faced, she bit out, ‘No, I joined TTO straight from college.’
‘Which one?’
‘I went to the London School of Economics.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember reading that you were at the LSE.’
‘Don recruited