Книга - Lovestruck

Lovestruck
CHARLOTTE LAMB


You remember, last night? At the party? When you proposed to me?"Proposed…  Sam hoarsely repeated, going pale. Natalie gave him a dewy look. "Yes. You went down on your knees, in front of them all… ." "On my… " he breathed, with incredulity and horror. "Knees." She nodded."And asked me to marry you. You put your signet ring on my finger and said it would do until we could get to a jeweler's to choose a real engagement ring, a sapphire to match my eyes. You remember, don't you, Sam?"







The morning after... (#ub649b114-de88-57d4-a7cb-97bd96420d18)About the Author (#u40477b9d-d2df-5ae0-ae52-222f34909114)Title Page (#u9e62b3ff-95d8-5afb-8411-41e097aee010)CHAPTER ONE (#u84eb6393-fee7-5f4f-8d7d-32ece1bf2bf4)CHAPTER TWO (#u4c29667c-3d5f-5142-af27-2c125236bb61)CHAPTER THREE (#u8219d927-41bc-5075-b298-b78298f414d4)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


The morning after...

When Natalie had first begun working for Sam Erskine, he had tried to date her and she had turned him down cold. Sam had accepted that—Natalie was far too good at her job for him to risk seducing her.

But when Sam, a little worse for wear, proposed to Natalie at a party, she decided to play him along and pretend she believed that he meant it. The next morning, Sam had a giant headache; the last thing he wanted to be was engaged! Natalie wasn’t herself, either. However, this dizzy, weak feeling she got whenever Sam was near was no hangover—she was lovestruck!


CHARLOTTE LAMB was born in London, England, in time for World War II, and spent most of the war moving from relative to relative to escape bombing. Educated at a convent, she married a journalist and now has five children. The family lives on the Isle of Man. Charlotte Lamb has written over a hundred books for Harlequin Presents.


Lovestruck

Charlotte Lamb






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


CHAPTER ONE

NATALIE walked in through the swing doors to find the reception lobby already crowded. Waiting fans buzzed with interest, staring at her slender figure, smooth dark hair and quiet, restrained clothes before deciding she was nobody famous or important and taking no more notice of her. They were mostly hanging around to catch one of the radio station’s biggest stars, Johnny Linklater, whose blown-up, grainy photograph stared down from the -walls on either side of the reception desk.

A tall, rangy, carelessly graceful man in his midthirties, Johnny had a charm that hid a multitude of sins. His fans were oblivious of his flaws, of course; for them Johnny was perfect.

They should have seen him last night! thought Natalie, signing in for work. He had been incandescent, knee-deep in pretty girls, looking terrific in black leather jeans and matching knee-length boots, a scarlet silk shirt open at his tanned neck. Pure Hollywood. But all that glitter hadn’t hidden from those who knew him really well a hectic desire to forget that the party celebrated his birthday, a day Johnny always dreaded.

Its arrival meant that another year had flashed past and he was one more year further on towards middle age. His birthday parties were acts of defiance. Behind his brilliant smile and light-hearted charm, Johnny was desperate, terrified of getting old, and although he could sometimes be irritating Natalie could forgive him a great deal for that secret vulnerability. It made him so much more human.

‘Lovely morning out there, Susie,’ Natalie said, exchanging smiles with the girl sitting behind the reception desk, a pretty blonde of about twenty, with round, saucer-like hazel eyes, who had only been working there for a few months and was still unable to believe her luck in getting the job. Natalie could remember how that felt. She, herself, had been over the moon at getting a job at the radio station when she’d started, but that had been three years ago; she was no longer starry-eyed these days—she had discovered that stars were just human beings under all the glitter.

Checking the time Natalie had written beside her name, Susie looked at her watch, then said, in disbelief, ‘You’re late!’

‘So I am,’ Natalie said cheerfully, amused by Susie’s incredulity. Okay, she was normally one of the first to arrive, but why shouldn’t she be late once in a blue moon? Nobody was perfect.

Adding two and two and reaching the obvious conclusion, Susie enviously asked, ‘Good party last night?’

Natalie’s blue eyes gleamed with reminiscence. ‘I had a lot of fun, thank you.’

‘Who with? Not Johnny?’ Susie at once asked, eyes brimming with curiosity, but Natalie was not being drawn.

Laughing, she walked off to the lifts, knowing that Susie would soon hear about it; the news would be all round the radio station in an hour or two. Gossip spread like wildfire here, and a lot of the staff had been at Johnny Linklater’s party last night. He had invited everyone who worked on his show, from the production staff to the girls in the programme office, as well as all the executives, including the head of the station, Sam Erskine, and Natalie, who was Sam’s secretary.

Once the others got to work this morning they would talk of nothing else, but Natalie had no intention of joining in. Discretion was an important part of her job; she knew a lot of secrets and never let a single one slip. She would never have held down her job so long otherwise.

Her office was on the top floor with a view across the town to the sea. A hush hung over the entire corridor this morning, although normally phones were ringing and voices arguing from one end to the other. Most people on this executive floor had been at the party and would still be struggling in to work.

As she’d expected there was no sign of her boss yet, although Sam Erskine was usually there when she arrived each morning; he seemed to come to work at crack of dawn. He worked a twelve-hour day five days a week, and often on Saturdays, too, and he expected his secretary to work almost as hard—to get there early and go home late, like himself. This morning, though, she had been certain he would be late. He must have the hangover of the century, and serve him right.

Natalie began her usual morning routine at once: switched on her word processor, collected the mail from the in-tray, where it had been delivered by the boy from the mail room, and began opening letters, reading through them, sorting them into various piles in order of importance and urgency. The telephone began to ring a few minutes later and the fax machine chattered away from time to time.

The calls were all for her boss, of course; she scribbled messages on her pad, answered questions, fielded enquiries deftly without admitting that Sam wasn’t yet at work. He expected the utmost discretion from her and she knew he would not want anyone to know he was in late that morning.

At a quarter past ten Natalie got a call from a friend in the advertising department who hadn’t been at the party last night. Gaynor’s voice was breathless with excitement.

‘Is it true?’

‘Is what true?’ hedged Natalie, although she knew exactly what Gaynor was talking about and couldn’t help smiling. But as Gaynor couldn’t see her that didn’t matter.

‘Oh, come off it, Nat, you know what I’m talking about...the party last night? I just saw Johnny’s producer, and she told me Sam had...’

Natalie heard a sound outside her office and hurriedly said, ‘Sorry, Gaynor, somebody coming in...can’t talk now, see you later.’

She hung up, but it wasn’t Sam, it was only one of the producers, who hurried in asking urgently, ‘Where’s Sam?’

‘He isn’t around at the moment, Red,’ fenced Natalie.

‘Hangover?’ She should have remembered that James Moor had been at the party last night. He was not much taller than she was, a cheerful, energy-burning man in his early thirties, with eyes the colour of chestnuts and a shock of bright red hair, hence his nickname.

She shrugged, not answering.

‘Poor Sam. I wonder how much he remembers?’ Red said, grinning at her. ‘Well, get him to give me a buzz, will you, when he does show?’

He had no sooner gone than the phone began to ring again. Natalie glanced at her watch. It was half-past ten now, but Sam still hadn’t shown up. Was he coming in to work at all today? Or was he hiding under his duvet wondering how to get himself out of trouble?

‘Mr Erskine’s office,’ Natalie said, picking up the receiver, and heard a high-pitched female voice she instantly recognised.

‘I want to talk to him!’ it shrilled.

I bet you do, thought Natalie, but said in a blank, polite voice, ‘I’m sorry, he isn’t in the office at the moment. Can I take a message?’

Furiously, the voice shrieked, ‘You mean he doesn’t want to talk to me!’

‘Who shall I tell him called?’ Natalie said in her creamiest tone, smiling to herself as she pictured the other woman’s expression. Helen West was a singer, a vibrant redhead, whose career had never quite got anywhere but who always behaved as if she were a big star. She had a temper as hot as her hair.

‘You know damned well who it is!’ Helen West yelled. ‘And you can tell him from me he isn’t getting out of it by hiding behind you. He’s going to regret doing this to me! And so are you—don’t worry!’

The phone slammed down and Natalie winced. Replacing the receiver, she looked at the clock. Twenty to eleven—where was he? Probably Helen West was right and Sam was hiding. From both of them. As well he might!

But he had a couple of really important appointments—he would have to show up sooner or later. Unless he had fled the country? No, he wouldn’t do that. He would be here sooner or later.

She couldn’t wait.

On going to bed the night before, Sam Erskine had automatically set his alarm for seven o’clock, as usual, but had slept through the peremptory ringing, which had finally died away leaving him to sleep on and on. It was well after ten when he finally stirred and turned over, yawning.

Opening one eye, he hurriedly shut it again as light blazed into it. ‘Ohhhh...’ he groaned, putting a hand to his thudding head.

After a moment he cautiously opened his eye again and looked at the clock, letting out a grunt of disbelief—what on earth was he doing, still in bed at this hour? It wasn’t Sunday, was it? Warily he opened his other eye and sat up, groaning again as the movement increased the thudding in his head; he felt as if someone was heating a gong inside his scalp, sending shock waves through the rest of him.

Vague memories of the night before slowly began to come back. Of course. The party. Johnny’s party. It must have been quite a night. Thank heavens Johnny only had a birthday once a year; too many parties like that could be life-destroying.

Pushing back the bedclothes, Sam swung his long legs out of bed and stood up, a hand over his dazzled eyes. Why was the sunlight so bright this morning? Why couldn’t it have been one of those dark and rainy days, when the sky was like old grey flannel and there was barely enough light to see by?

Naked, he walked across the room to the bathroom. Sam never wore pyjamas; he preferred to sleep naked, especially in summer. It saved on washing. He paid a cleaner to come in once a week to clean his flat but she did not do his washing; Sam had to do it himself.

He had a routine of stuffing his dirty clothes into the washing machine every Saturday and ironing them on Sunday afternoons while he listened to rival radio stations and got ideas from any programmes he enjoyed, or made derisive notes on what he considered their failures. He quite enjoyed the hours he spent that way; he had come to like ironing, it was a soothingly boring occupation, kept his hands busy and left his mind available for a free-flow of ideas. Some of his best projects had come out of an afternoon ironing.

After turning on the shower he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror and saw uneasiness in his grey eyes, but couldn’t think why it should be there. What was preying on his subconscious? He knew something was—if only he could remember what!

He hadn’t crashed his car, had he? Hit someone? He stepped under the shower and gave a yelp of shock as his warm flesh came into contact with the cool jets of water.

At least this should wake him up! He showered rapidly, checking himself as he did—but there were no marks on his strong, angular face or the lean, muscular body below it. If there had been a fight he had not been injured in any way.

Maybe it was the other guy who had come off badly? he thought, grinning, not displeased with that idea. He hoped it hadn’t been Johnny—the last thing he needed was a feud with his top star. But Johnny wasn’t the fighting type. He was too afraid of damage to his face.

Something had happened, though. He just knew it. Ever since he woke up something had been hovering at the back of his mind just out of sight, never going away but never letting him see it clearly.

What on earth was it?

As he towelled himself, and dressed in a red-striped shirt and dark grey suit, he chased the memory. Something had definitely happened last night and Sam couldn’t shake off a growing uneasiness. Knotting his dark red silk tie, he stared into the dressing table mirror, not seeing himself at all, calling up memories of the party.

He had taken a taxi, which had stopped to pick up Helen who had been wearing pleated black satin which left a lot of her visible—bare white shoulders, half her high, creamy breasts, all her arms and even some of her thighs, glimpsed through slits in the long skirt.

She had looked sensational, and when Johnny had met them at his front door, he had gazed, open-mouthed. ‘Wow, you sexy thing!’ he’d breathed, arms flung wide. ‘Give me a kiss!’

Johnny had been lit up, the life and soul of the party, as always, loving being the centre of attention, and Helen hadn’t exactly struggled to escape his clutches.

She had been in one of her moods last night. All the way to the party she had been coaxing and badgering Sam on the usual subject. They had been arguing about it for weeks. Helen wanted to get married. Sam didn’t.

He had good reasons for not wanting to get married. He had explained them all over again, he had been patience itself—but Helen had refused to accept them. In fact, she’d refused to listen at all. By the time they’d got to the party she’d been in a sulky, glowering mood.

She had given him a defiant look as she’d put both arms round Johnny’s neck and dehberately leaned her sexy little body against him.

She hoped to make him jealous, he’d realised, watching her wryly. Well, she wasn’t going to win at that game, he remembered thinking. He wasn’t the jealous type. If she wanted to flirt with Johnny, let her. So he had wandered off to get a drink from the bar, leaving them together. Let them get on with it!

Bad move! he thought now, running a brush over his thick black hair. He shouldn’t have started drinking so early. He rarely drank much; it slowed the responses, made thinking difficult, and Sam needed his brain in good working order all the time. His job required it; you couldn’t run a radio station part-time—you had to be on the ball twenty-four hours a day because you never knew when a problem might come up. It was different for the broadcasters themselves; when they had finished their show they came off air and could go home and do as they pleased—they worked a fixed number of hours a day. Lucky old them.

If he hadn’t started drinking as soon as he’d arrived he wouldn’t have this headache now!

As he put his hairbrush down on the dressing table he stopped, staring at his hand fixedly. His signet ring was missing.

His heart thudded in shock. He almost never took it off. But maybe he had taken it off in the shower? He didn’t remember doing it—why should he have done? But he hurried back to the bathroom and looked everywhere. No sign of the ring there.

Returning to his bedroom, he searched that, growing increasingly worried, but he didn’t find the ring anywhere. He had worn it to the party, hadn’t he? He must have done. He never took it off. It was very old and immensely valuable. Of massive gold, it bore his family crest. Sam was very proud of it and had worn it day and night since he first inherited it.

The Erskines were an old family from the Strathclyde area of Scotland; their surname was believed to be the Celtic word for a green hill and their crest represented that.

The shield it bore was divided into four, with the symbol for a green hill in two opposing sections while the other two carried a broken sword, no doubt because they had been a war-like collection, his ancestors, always fighting, although why the sword in their shield was broken Sam had no idea.

The ring had been in Sam’s family for generations. It was always given to the eldest son on his twenty-first birthday, but in Sam’s case his father had been dead by then and the ring had been kept locked in a bank vault for some years. The ring had been handed over during Sam’s birthday party, by his mother. Sam could remember the weight of it as it first slid onto his finger; it had been far too big, and he had had to have it altered to fit, but he had felt far more than the weight of the ring that evening.

His mother had wept. ‘His finger was much bigger than yours.’ She still mourned his father, who had been a massive man, six feet six and broad of shoulders, deep of chest, with large, powerful hands. Sam had been scared of him but had loved him very much; he still missed his father, too.

Jack Erskine had died in the Himalayas during a British climbing expedition; the weather had turned against them overnight, arctic conditions had driven them back down the mountain and in a blizzard Jack had missed his footing and fallen to his death.

Sam had been sixteen, too old to cry; if he had cried he might not have taken the shock so hard. The bruise of it was still buried deep inside his mind. Putting on his father’s ring had been a terrifying experience.

He had felt the weight of his entire family as he’d put on the ring—aware of his mother, watching him with pride and sadness, aware of his two younger sisters, Jeanie, who was ten, and eight-year-old Marie, all of them now his responsibility, which he knew already wasn’t going to be an easy one. He had been aware, too, of the other Erskine eyes watching him. Dozens of relatives had been at his twenty-first party—and beyond them Sam had felt the centuries of family history stretching back to the fifteenth century, when their branch of the Erskines had first appeared.

He felt their shadowy presence now and shivered. If he had lost the ring, his mother, the family, would never forgive him—he would never forgive himself. It was priceless and irreplaceable. His finger felt bare without it.

He must have lost it at Johnny’s party—but how? Maybe Johnny had found it by now. Sam walked over to the phone, which was still switched onto the answering machine. He flicked the switch to play back any calls and Helen’s voice shrieked.

‘I hate you. Do you hear? I’ll never forgive you. Never.’

The machine clicked off. Sam put a hand to his head, flinching. There was a whirring noise and Helen’s voice shrieked again.

‘I suppose you thought that was really clever, didn’t you? You did it to make me look stupid. Well, you’re going to look pretty stupid when I’ve finished with you. I’m going to make you wish you were dead.’

Sam already wished he was dead. His head was hammering and his mouth was as dry as a desert.

Another whirr, then Helen’s voice began again. Sam couldn’t stand any more; he switched the recording off and hurriedly dialled Johnny’s number, but got no reply. Johnny was probably fast asleep and would be for most of the day. Heaven only knew what time he had got to sleep last night.

Sam decided to try again later. Without bothering to have any breakfast, he left his top-floor flat in an apartment block on the promenade, with its breathtaking view of the coast, took the lift down to the underground car park, climbed into his little red MG, which he loved passionately, and drove off to work.

He needed some black coffee before he could think clearly; he would get Natalie to make him some when he got to the office. A frown pulled his black brows together. Natalie. Now why had her name given him another stab of uneasiness?

What had happened last night?

Fishing dark glasses out of his glove compartment, he drove along the promenade and up the short hill on which the radio station sat. The drive only took a few minutes. Sam often walked it, but today he wasn’t up to the walk. Parking behind the building, he walked in through Reception, past the hovering mob of Johnny’s fans.

The girl behind the desk gave him a lopsided, excited grin as soon as he came through the doors. ‘Good morning, Mr Erskine! How are you this morning?’

Why was she smiling like that? Sam gave her a curt nod. ‘Fine, thanks.’ Stupid girl—what was so funny? That he was late for once? That he was wearing dark glasses? Okay, he had a hangover. So what?

‘Cong...’ she began, but he was already out of earshot, striding to the lift, passing a couple of secretaries who were chattering to each other on their way through the lobby. As they saw Sam they stopped talking quickly, only to begin giggling.

‘Good morning, Mr Erskine,’ they chanted as he strode past, and he got two more of those knowing, grinning looks.

He was glad to get into the lift and have the doors close on them all. When he got to his office he must ring Johnny first, and if there was no reply send someone over to wake him up, put him under a shower, sober him up and get him here in time for his show at noon. Dead or alive, Johnny had to do his show.

Sam walked into his office and found Natalie just placing a pile of opened letters on his desk.

She looked round, her sleek dark hair falling against her cheek, her blue eyes faintly amused, which irritated him. This morning Natalie was as cool and elegant and together as ever. No hangover for Natalie, who only drank orange juice or mineral water, or a single glass of white wine, or champagne on very special occasions.

‘No morning after the night before for you, I suppose?’ Sam muttered. ‘You’re too perfect to live.’ It annoyed him just to look at her; she wasn’t human—had she no ordinary weaknesses? He wished she had his head this morning. She should have agony stabbing away inside her temples.

She merely smiled. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Black,’ he said. He caught the sideways lift of her brows and added, ‘Please,’ knowing what that silent glance meant.

They had been working together for a long time. She knew him very well. Too well, he thought, glowering. What was she looking at him like that for?

Natalie went out and Sam absently watched her go. She was a slender girl, who wore much the same outfit every day: a white shirt, with small, pearly buttons, tucked into a smooth-fitting skirt—a black one today—discreet, demure, the hem just around the knee. She was only five feet four or so—a good eight inches shorter than Sam. Her legs were worth looking at—he looked at them until she vanished. There was something about the way she moved that had always got his attention. Beautifully shaped ankles, too. There wasn’t much of her, but what there was Sam found very pleasurable to look at. Pity she was one of the touch-me-not brigade. He had never yet managed to get her closer than a foot or so away, let alone into his bed.

Sam sat down behind his desk to check on the pile of telephone messages, the neat pile of faxes. He read quickly, absorbing them all, and had finished by the time Natalie came back with the black coffee. She hadn’t reached his desk when the door crashed open and Helen erupted into the room, her red hair windblown, her green eyes Hashing.

‘Oh, so you are here! I knew she was lying!’ she yelled, then glared at Natalie. ‘I knew you were lying! You’ve never fooled me. I knew what you were after all along, with your sweet pussycat smiles and your demure office kit—the perfect secretary, ha ha. The minute I set eyes on you I knew the sort of operator you are!’

Natalie took no notice of her at all. She quietly moved to put Sam’s cup of coffee on his desk, but Helen tried to charge past her and knocked the cup flying, splashing everything within reach with scalding black coffee.

Some of it went over Sam, some of it over Natalie; Helen got splashed herself and that seemed to send her into a positive frenzy.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ she screamed at Natalie.

‘Are you out of your mind, Helen?’ Sam angrily asked her, looking at his coffee-stained shirt. ‘You’ve soaked us all! And don’t try to shift the blame to Natalie...’

‘Oh, no, of course not She’s just a sweet innocent, isn’t she?’ Helen snapped, sarcasm loading every syllable.

‘What on earth is the matter with you?’ Sam wished he could remember more about last night; what could he have done to her to put her in this mood? Helen had always had a hot temper, but he had never seen her like this before. Her vibrant red hair seemed to be blazing with rage, and her green eyes were cat-like with venom.

‘As if you didn’t know! You needn’t think I cara—I only came to tell you I hate you and if I never see you again it will be too soon for me!’

Her voice had gone up with every other word until the decibels were loud enough to wake the dead—or at least those of the radio station staff who had been to Johnny’s party too and were barely able to keep their eyes open this morning.

Beyond this office the corridors and rooms were totally silent. No doubt everyone within earshot was listening with fascination.

‘For heaven’s sake, Helen, calm down! Surely we can talk this out in a civilised manner,’ Sam said in what he tried to make a placating tone, but that only seemed to make matters worse.

‘Don’t talk to me as if I was half-witted! You humiliated me last night, but that was what you intended to do, wasn’t it? Well, you aren’t getting away with it.’ Helen slapped him hard across the face, gave a loud, angry sob, then turned and ran out of the office, slamming the door behind her so that every pane of glass in the room rattled and shook.

Sam swore, gingerly feeling his hot, stinging cheek. ‘I’ll swear she loosened some of my teeth! Remind me never to get involved with singers again, will you? I know musicians are always temperamental, but Helen takes it to ridiculous extremes.’

Natalie had mopped herself dry with a handful of paper tissues; she offered him the box.

‘Dry yourself off. I’ll get a clean shirt out for you.’ He always kept a couple of shirts in the office in case of emergencies.

‘Get me that coffee first,’ Sam said, busily dabbing at himself with paper tissue. ‘I need it even more now. My headache is ten times worse after listening to Helen yelling blue murder.’

‘I’ll get you some aspirin,’ Natalie promised, going out She returned a moment later with a glass of water, a couple of aspirin and a fresh cup of black coffee.

Sam looked at her gratefully; she never shouted at him or chucked things. She made his office life a haven of peace and quiet ‘What would I do without you?’

She gave him that curling little smile of hers, putting the coffee on his desk and handing him the pills and the glass of water.

‘Oh, there would be some other woman around to wait on you hand and foot, no doubt.’

Ignoring the faint touch of sarcasm in her quiet voice, Sam swallowed the pills and a gulp of water, then handed her back the glass.

‘Can you get me that clean shirt now?’ He met her eyes again and added drily, ‘Please, Natalie?’

‘Of course, Mr Erskine.’ She walked away to the cabinet where she kept his shirts, spare underwear and a pair of boots he sometimes used for outside broadcasts. Sam admired her legs again; they really were something. He’d like to see all of them one day, not to mention the rest of her. What did she look like out of her neat, demure little office outfits? Interesting idea, he thought, absently unbuttoning his coffee-stained shirt and taking it off.

Natalie came back with his clean shirt, glanced at his bare, hair-roughened chest then quickly looked away. Sam’s mouth twisted. Hadn’t she ever seen a guy naked? The idea struck him forcibly—maybe she hadn’t?

What, a virgin, in this day and age? he thought, almost laughing at the notion. Not a chance. Rarer than unicorns.

He took the shirt she held out to him and slid his arms into it, began to fumble with the small buttons which ran down the front. They were so stiff he couldn’t force them into place, and he impatiently abandoned the attempt.

‘Could you do these damn things up for me, Natalie?’ he muttered.

He could tell from the pause that followed that she was reluctant to do it—in fact, for a moment he thought she was going to refuse—but in the end she did come closer, and put out her hand to start buttoning.

He saw a glint of gold on one finger and gave a sharp exclamation, grabbing her wrist.

‘You’ve found my ring! What a relief! When I woke up this morning and realised I wasn’t wearing it I went into a terrible panic. My mother would kill me if I ever lost it. I searched my flat for half an hour this morning, and then I realised I must have left it somewhere at Johnny’s place—I tried to ring Johnny, but of course there was no reply. He’s probably dead to the world.’

‘Probably,’ she echoed, not meeting his eyes.

‘I can’t thank you enough for taking care of it for me,’ Sam said. ‘Where did you find it?’

‘I didn’t find it,’ she said limpidly. ‘You gave it to me.’

Startled, he queried her. ‘Gave it to you?’

‘Last night.’ She nodded. ‘At the party.’

‘Did I? I must have been very drunk; I don’t remember a thing about it.’ His hand was still extended, but Natalie made no move to give the ring to him, and Sam’s eyes grew wary. ‘Can I have it, please? It’s a family heirloom, you know, and very valuable.’

Surely to heaven she wasn’t intending to keep it? No, of course she wouldn’t—Natalie wasn’t the type to do something like that. That would be tantamount to stealing. Okay, he might have given it to her, on some crazy impulse last night, but she must have realised he hadn’t known what he was doing.

‘You can have it when you give me the other one,’ she said. ‘Drink your coffee while it’s hot; it will help you wake up.’

‘What other one?’ He was bewildered; what was she talking about? He must be slow on the uptake this morning. He picked up the cup of coffee and took a sip too fast. The hot liquid burnt his tongue.

‘You said it would be a sapphire, to match my eyes,’ Natalie said, with a gleam of happy reminiscence in the big blue eyes watching him.

‘Sapphire...’ repeated Sam, his stomach sinking as it dawned on him that she was wearing his signet ring on her left hand. On her engagement finger.

‘You remember, last night?’ Natalie said in a honeyed tone. ‘At the party? When you proposed to me? In front of everyone?’

‘Proposed...’ Sam hoarsely repeated, going pale.

She gave him a dewy look. ‘Yes. You went down on your knees, in front of them all...’

‘On my...’ he breathed, with incredulity and horror.

‘Knees.’ She nodded. ‘And asked me to marry you. You put your signet ring on my finger and said it would do until we could get to a jeweller’s to choose a real engagement ring, a sapphire to match my eyes. You remember, don’t you, Sam?’


CHAPTER TWO

‘IS THIS your idea of a joke?’ Sam grimly asked, staring at her as if she had grown another head. ‘Because if it is I’m not amused.’

‘Like Queen Victoria,’ she murmured.

‘What?’ he snarled.

He was really furious, she realised, surprised. She had seen Sam angry before, but it had never been with her. He was far too possessed by his job, an energy-driven man, restless and obsessed. But all that fire went into his work, not his private life. With his women he was far more casual, very laid-back, making no commitments. He never seemed to take them seriously, and she knew none of his relationships lasted very long.

She had always been irritated by the way he treated his women, as if love was just a game. She suspected he thought of women as toys to pick up, play with and put down when you got bored. Natalie could never understand why women let him treat them that way. She wouldn’t; that was for sure. Sam had once or twice asked her out, but she had always refused coolly. She only dated men who took her very seriously.

‘She wasn’t amused, either,’ Natalie reminded him.

‘Who wasn’t?’

He seemed to be mentally challenged this morning, but that wasn’t surprising after last night.

Patiently she repeated, ‘Queen Victoria. Wasn’t amused, remember?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ he muttered.

Sam normally had a good sense of humour, but she let it pass, shrugging.

‘Give me my ring and stop trying to be funny!’ Sam stuck his hand out and she gazed at it without moving, opening her eyes as wide as she could.

‘But, Sam, we’re engaged to be married...’

He exploded, his voice going up several octaves. ‘We are nothing of the kind and you know it! Okay, maybe I was so drunk last night that I somehow or other said something or other about—’

He broke off, having lost whatever he had been going to say, or perhaps not wishing to admit he had ever proposed to her. So Natalie ended the sentence for him.

‘About marrying you? Yes, you did, Sam—in front of dozens of people. You proposed to me, on your...’

He loomed over her, smouldering. ‘Yes, okay, I don’t want to hear all that again. I was drunk. You know that! You know it wasn’t serious!’

Of course she knew, but she wasn’t ready to give up her game yet.

‘But you asked me to marry you!’ Her eyes opened wider than ever and he stared into the blueness of them for a few seconds, drawing a long, angry breath which he held as if he was counting to ten.

Then, in a very careful voice, he said, ‘For heaven’s sake, Natalie, we’ve never even had a date. Why should I suddenly propose out of the blue?’

‘You said I was the perfect woman,’ Natalie said in limpid tones. ‘Your dream woman, you said.’ She smiled mistily at him. ‘It was very romantic—especially when you went on your knees and begged me to marry you.’

Sam stared at her, dark red creeping up his face. Running a hand through his already dishevelled hair, he muttered, ‘You’re kidding! I’ve never been that drunk before.’

Oh, thanks! she thought. That’s really flattering.

Sam’s brow corrugated. He’s thinking at last! Natalie recognised. She hoped it hurt.

After a few seconds he groaned. ‘It just dawned on me—was Helen there when I...?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Natalie. In fact, she would never forget Helen West’s face at that moment—it still made a glow in her memory. She had never liked the woman; not many people at the radio station did. The only people the singer was friendly to were youngish and good-looking men in good jobs. If you were poorer or older than her, or female, or plain, Helen West used you as a doormat or was coldly arrogant when she spoke to you—which was how she had always treated Natalie, who obviously came into most categories of people she despised.

‘So that’s why I got the slap in the face?’ Sam fingered his jaw, grimacing. ‘It still hurts.’

‘Oh, poor Sam,’ Natalie sweetly said, hoping it hurt a lot, and he looked down at her, his eyes now stiletto-sharp.

‘You don’t mean that, do you? If you did you’d want to kiss it better. As we’re engaged!’

She blinked, startled. Why hadn’t it dawned on her that he might do something like that? It should have done. She knew very well what an opportunist Sam was, in his work as well as in his private life.

Natalie wasn’t the gambling type, but she took a gamble then, rather than abandon her little game with Sam, which she was enjoying too, much to give up yet—although maybe her sense of humour was leading her into dangerous territory.

Lowering her lashes and looking at him through them, she murmured dulcetly, ‘Bend down, then.’

She caught the flash of surprise in his eyes. He hadn’t expected her to agree. But he bent, watching her as if wondering how far she was going to go, and Natalie lifted her head and pressed her mouth firmly on his jaw, more or less where Helen’s slap had connected. His skin was cool and faintly prickly; he hadn’t shaved as closely as usual this morning. In a hurry, no doubt, or his hand not too steady after the night before.

Natalie quickly moved away again. ‘There. All better,’ she mocked.

It might have been wiser not to say anything. She saw his grey eyes glint dangerously, then his hand shot out to capture her chin and hold it in position while his gaze roamed over her face with cool appraisal, as if he had never really noticed how she looked before. He probably hadn’t, either. He was always too busy with work, or other women. She was just part of his office furniture, a useful piece of living equipment he needed for his job. Natalie was aware that she didn’t come into the range of women Sam noticed sexually, and it had often annoyed her. Nobody liked being mistaken for a desk or a chair.

So, when he grabbed her chin and looked at her that way, she was ready to resent it—except that as she looked into his eyes pulses began to beat in her throat, at her wrist, a reaction that disturbed her. What was going on here? She had no designs on Sam, and she wasn’t fool enough to let herself fall for him. She had thought it would be fun to tease him a little, that was all; getting involved with him had definitely not been in her game plan. Maybe it was time to stop playing with him before he began playing with her?

Oh, yes, definitely, she thought in agitation as she saw his gaze lingering on her mouth.

‘Did I kiss you when I proposed?’ he murmured in a smoky, deliberately sensuous tone that seemed to turn her brains to scrambled egg.

She gazed back at him, swallowing convulsively and unable to get a word out.

‘I must have done,’ he added. ‘If I proposed. I must have kissed you, mustn’t I? Pity I don’t remember doing it. I’d like to remember that.’

His gaze was still riveted on her mouth. She felt her face growing hot and tried to say something, anything, to break the strange trance holding her rigid.

Sam bent. Slowly. Very slowly. Her mouth dry, Natalie stared up at his approaching face like a rabbit hypnotised by the dropping shadow of a bird of prey.

When his mouth touched her lips her body seemed to be set on fire; she was so stunned by her own feelings that she didn’t even try pushing him away. She just shook like a leaf, her legs giving under her, her head falling back as if her neck had lost every bone in it and could no longer keep her head upright.

Sam’s arms went round her waist as if to catch her; she clutched at him to keep herself standing on her own two feet. She had once been in an earthquake, in Turkey. This was just how it had felt: the same sense of helplessness, the feeling that you were no longer standing on ground you could trust, tremors running through you and shaking you to your roots.

His hands on the small of her back pushed her closer, closer, until she was lying against his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through her own shirt and shivering at the intimacy of the contact, aware of every muscle in his body, every smooth, tanned inch of flesh. She was overwhelmed by a desire to bury her face in that beautiful male skin and was horrified by the impulse.

She must be out of her mind! What did she think she was doing, letting him do this to her? Pulling her head back from his kiss, she put her hands Hat on that strong, naked chest, and shoved him away.

‘Stop it!’

He looked down at her with half-hooded, drowsy eyes, as if waking up, and Natalie’s heart skidded a dangerous corner. So was that how he looked first thing in the morning, in bed?

What are you thinking? she asked herself, despairing of her own brain. You told him to stop it—you should have told yourself the same thing!

Then Sam grinned down at her, mockery glinting in his face. ‘But, Natalie, we’re engaged, aren’t we?’

‘Oh, you think you’re so funny!’ she muttered. Well, it was her own fault for starting this game—she should have remembered that he was a tricky opponent; if you played games with Sam you had to do so with your eyes wide open, and his kiss had tricked her into closing hers. Maybe that was why she had gone a little crazy? Next time she’d keep her eyes wide open.

What next time? she asked herself furiously. There was never going to be another time, thank you very much. Once burnt, twice shy. She wasn’t going within an inch of him in future. She had learnt something this morning that worried her.

Sam could get to her. If he got too close he could make her go crazy. Well, he wasn’t getting another chance to do that to her!

His ring was a little loose on her finger, anyway; her fingers were so much smaller, thinner than his—so it was time she gave it back to him, in case she lost it. She would hate to do that, even if he richly deserved it. She knew how much the ring meant to him and his family, and how valuable it was.

‘Here,’ she said, very flushed, pulling the ring off and handing it to him.

‘Jilting me so soon?’ he reproached, but she noticed he accepted the ring without a second’s hesitation and immediately slid it back onto his own finger with an audible sigh of relief.

‘You know we weren’t really engaged!’ Natalie told him crossly, resenting his eagerness to get his ring back. ‘I didn’t take you seriously last night; I knew you were out of your head. I only kept your ring because I thought you might lose it if I didn’t take care of it. You obviously had no idea what you were doing! I just hope it has taught you a lesson. Maybe next time you go to a party you won’t drink so much.’

He eyed her coldly. ‘Yes, Miss—thank you, Miss!’ Then he grimaced. ‘No, you’re right—I can assure you, I will make sure I never drink that much again. I have the worst headache of my life today.’

‘You deserve it,’ she muttered, moving away.

He looked sharply at her, and then, his voice holding soft threat, said, ‘Be careful, Natalie. Don’t push it too far. Remember, I’m your boss. Now, would you be good enough to finish doing up my shirt?’

The last thing she wanted to do was go any closer to him again, but after being reminded that he was her employer she was wary of refusing point-blank—especially as those hard eyes of his were daring her to argue.

Also, if she refused she would betray something to him. He would realise she was afraid to come near him and he would start thinking about that and jumping to conclusions she didn’t want him to jump to——conclu— sions she had only just begun to suspect herself and needed time to think through.

So without a word she did what he wanted, trying to avoid contact with any part of his body, gingerly pushing the buttons through the buttonholes without touching the bare skin under his shirt. She had to stand far too close to him for comfort, but she kept her eyes lowered all the time to avoid meeting his watchful gaze. Through her lashes she could see Sam’s face, though, his eyes far too probing and thoughtful.

What was he thinking? Don’t even wonder! she told herself. Better not to know. For her own peace of mind!

As soon as the last button was done up she quickly moved away, aware that her face was very pink and her throat beating with awareness. She was going to have to watch herself in future, whenever Sam was around. Since when had he had this effect on her, and why hadn’t she noticed it until now?

You know why, she thought. This is the first time he’s come so close, the first time he’s made any sort of serious pass. He had once or twice tried to date her, when they’d first started working together, but she had turned him down cold and he had accepted that, had perhaps even been relieved—especially once they had worked together for a few weeks and Sam had realised she was so useful to him. Far too useful, in fact, for Sam to risk upsetting their working relationship by trying to seduce her.

That was why she hadn’t been exposed to his particular brand of masculinity before—and, judging by the women she had seen him date over the three years since she’d begun working at the radio station, he was sexual dynamite. So why was she surprised that she had gone down with such worrying symptoms? She should have expected it. Why on earth had she run the risk of playing with fire?

Maybe if she kept her head and never got too close again she would get over this weird, dizzy weakness every time she looked at him—if she could do that, she might even be immunised for life.

‘Shall we do some work now?’ she asked him. ‘We’ve got all these letters to deal with, and you have some calls to make.’

‘Tell me, when did I start working for you?’ Sam coldly enquired, lifting one black eyebrow. ‘I had the distinct impression it was the other way around.’

She had had enough of playing games, so she shrugged casually. ‘Oh, well, if you don’t need me I might as well take my coffee break now.’ In fact, she was relieved at the thought of getting away from him for a while.

She turned to walk to his office door but Sam moved into her path, dauntingly big and determined, obviously, to be very difficult.

‘I’ve only just got here! We have a lot to do this morning. You’re not taking any coffee breaks until I say so.’

‘I thought you had decided not to work today!’

‘I didn’t say that—I told you I was your boss, you weren’t mine. I decide what work we do. Before we deal with the mail I want to see last month’s ratings, so would you ring AR and ask if they’re ready?’

They had arrived that morning, from the audience research team, and she had known he would want to see them at once so she had put them on his desk along with the opened letters. Leaning over, she picked up the red folder and silently offered it to him.

Sam shot her a look like a knife that went right through her and came out in her back. ‘Has anyone ever told you how irritating you can be?’

‘Yes, you, Mr Ersk ine—at least once a day since I started working for you.’ She gave him another of her sweet, reasonable smiles. ‘But you don’t offend me, don’t worry.’ He could insult her all he liked while she was being paid so well to put up with him. ‘It comes with the job,’ she said. ‘Like having to answer abusive phone calls from the listeners.’

Sam’s teeth snapped tightly, as if he was biting off some furious comment, and she took a step back from him, not liking the glitter in his eyes. But luckily at that moment the office door crashed open and they both jumped and looked round, startled to see Johnny Linklater posing in the doorway, silver-lensed sunglasses hiding his eyes, his corn-coloured hair flopping carelessly over his temples. He had probably spent half an hour to get it to fall just like that. His image was his life’s work. He left nothing to chance, even the fall of a lock of hair.

‘Pinch me—see if you can find a pulse,’ he said with dramatic melancholy as he strolled elegantly over to sink into the nearest chair. ‘Am I alive or not? I can’t quite decide.’

‘Black coffee coming up,’ Natalie said, picking up her cue and immediately going off to her own office to make it.

‘You read my mind! Angel, darling heart, I love you,’ Johnny called after her, and she smiled warmly at him.

He had arrived at precisely the right time and she was grateful to him for that. He had rescued her from what might have become a real problem with Sam, and it didn’t help to acknowledge that it was her own fault. She had put ideas into Sam’s head, ideas she did not want there, but how was she going to make him forget them?

She came back with the coffee a few moments later to find Johnny totally relaxed, lying back in his chair, propping his silver cowboy boots on Sam’s desk, those long legs of his tightly encased in his usual black leather jeans. Johnny lived his own legend; he was never seen except dressed as if for a photo opportunity and he made sure he was usually surrounded by adoring fans, all of them female, most of them half his age, as if the proximity of the young might rub off on him, give him the illusion of youth for a few more years.

Natalie put the strong black coffee down on the desk, at his elbow, and he gave her a lazy smile, brushing back that soft flop of blond hair in a way that made it fall back precisely into place a second later.

‘Thanks, honey. Did you enjoy my party? There were so many people there I didn’t get to dance with you, and I’d promised myself I would, but things got so hectic. It was one of the best parties I’ve ever had, I thought.’ There was a slight anxiety in his eyes, a question mark; under Johnny’s apparent carelessness there was always this uncertainty, the melancholy of a man whose whole life depended upon his looks, which he knew to be finite.

‘Everyone had a wonderful time, Johnny,’ Natalie quickly assured him. ‘I know I did; thank you for inviting me.’

‘My pleasure, sweetheart.’ Johnny’s hooded eyes wandered down over her trim figure approvingly, then his face changed and, swinging his feet down from Sam’s desk, he said, ‘Hey, I just remembered. You could have knocked me down with a feather when you proposed, Sam—and I’ll never forgive you for stealing the girl I had my eye on!’ Bending his long, slim body, he lightly kissed Natalie on the cheek. ‘I wish you every happiness, honey, and if he doesn’t make you happy, give me a buzz and I’ll come round and beat him up. Just say the word.’

Natalie slid a glance sideways at Sam, who was scowling. Let him explain to Johnny that there was no engagement! Why should she?

Cheerfully Johnny asked, ‘When’s the wedding? Better make it soon. The autumn schedules are pretty heavy—Sam’s going to be very busy once we hit August. Hey, can I be best man? After all, you got engaged at my party?’

Sam said coldly, ‘Thanks for the congratulations, but we aren’t engaged, Johnny. It was just a joke.’

Johnny’s jaw dropped. He looked into Sam’s face, frowning, then at Natalie. ‘Just a joke? Whose joke? Yours, Sam?’ He was watching Natalie intently, his eyes searching her face. ‘Did you know it was just a joke, honey?’

She was touched by the serious look in his face—Johnny might give the impression to most people that he was a playboy, flippant and shallow, but there was a serious side to him, hidden away.

‘You don’t honestly imagine I would ever consider marrying Sam?’ She lightly shrugged, pretending to laugh. ‘Of course I didn’t take him seriously. I know he’s not the marrying type, and even if he was, he’s not my type.’

Johnny roared with laughter.

Sam was not so amused. In fact, when she risked a brief, sideways look at him, his face was icily blank—a fact which did not escape Johnny, either.

‘This girl’s smart; she’s really got you figured out,’ Johnny told him with a certain enjoyment. There had always been an element of friendly competition between the two men where women were concerned. Johnny put his arm round Natalie’s waist. ‘So I’m still in there with a chance, sweetheart?’

She let his arm stay where he had put it, and smiled at him without answering.

Sam said curtly, ‘Have you noticed the time, Johnny? You should be in the studio getting your discs set up for the show by now, shouldn’t you? Panic bells will be ringing in the control room if you don’t show up soon.’

Instantly agitated, Johnny looked at his watch. ‘God, you’re right! I must run. See you both.’ Carrying his mug of black coffee in one hand, he rushed out, letting the office door slam shut. Sam walked round his desk and sat down, tapping his long fingers on the wooden surface.

Giving Natalie a long, hard stare, he said, ‘If you have any sense at all you won’t start dating Johnny. He isn’t your type, you know.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that!’ Natalie couldn’t agree more, in fact. She liked Johnny very much, but she wasn’t sexually attracted to him. All the same, she wasn’t having Sam dictating her private life. Give the man an inch and he was the type to take a mile—a real little office Napoleon. Either his mother had brought him up believing he was God’s gift to the female sex, or he had an over-abundance of testosterone.

‘Women have no judgement whatever where men are concerned!’ Sam informed her.

She looked at him drily. ‘Oh, I have a pretty shrewd idea what makes you tick.’

‘Do you indeed?’ he drawled, his mouth ironic. ‘I doubt it. But I wasn’t talking about myself. You know what I meant. Johnny Linklater is a great guy, and a buddy of mine, but I wouldn’t trust him with one of my sisters.’

Natalie smiled at that, believing him. She knew Sam worried about his two younger sisters; it was one of his more endearing qualities. She knew, too, that his mother hen attitude drove both of them mad. They had confided in her one day a few months back, asking her how they could get him to stop trying to run their lives for them. Natalie had advised them that their wisest course was not to tell Sam anything they thought he might not like, although she couldn’t help thinking that they should be more grateful for the care and concern Sam had always given them both.

Sam had been standing in for their dead father for years and he had got the habit, hadn’t yet realised that Jeanie and Marie had grown up. They were both over twenty now; they had a right to make their own decisions, choose their own boyfriends, live their own lives.

‘Just watch it with Linklater. The man’s chronically unfaithful and completely irresponsible,’ Sam said tersely.

‘I’ve been looking after myself since I was sixteen,’ said Natalie. ‘I can manage Johnny, don’t worry.’

Sam laughed angrily. ‘Famous last words! A lot of other women have thought they could manage Johnny, but they all failed. Oh, well, if you want to make a fool of yourself I can’t stop you—let’s get down to work.’ He reached for the audience research figures, his face set like concrete.

Natalie sighed—now he was going to be in a sulky mood all day, was he? Why were men so childish?

They spent half an hour going through the figures, then they moved on to skim through the mail; Sam dictated a few letters in reply, before starting on a memo to be sent to all the production offices on keeping costs down and using studios more economically and efficiently. It was one he sent out every few months. At first people were very careful, but slowly standards would slip and back would creep all the bad habits into which big organisations slid if nobody kept an eye on them.

He was halfway through dictating his memo when the phone rang and he picked it up. ‘Hello? Yes, speaking.’ He looked startled. ‘Oh, hello, Jeanie—anything wrong? What? No, I haven’t seen any of this morning’s papers.’ His voice shot up to a roar, making Natalie jump. ‘What? Said what?’ he yelled into the phone.

There was a silence while he listened, his face darkening, his eyes glittering with temper, then he said, ‘No, it isn’t! Of course not. She what? Oh, my God. Well, tell her it was all just a joke. No, you tell her. If I ring her she’ll keep asking me stupid questions and probing like a dentist... Well, I know she worries about me, she’s always telling me she does, but... No, I won’t ring her. I want you to do it. Are you listening, Jeanie? Hello? Jeanie?’

He slammed the phone down and stared at it as if it were a snake. ‘Damn. She hung up on me.’

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Natalie.

He looked at her with grim eyes. ‘They’ve heard about last night. It’s all your fault!’

The injustice took her breath away. When she got it back she burst out in a muddled flood of words. ‘It wasn’t me who got drunk and proposed to me! It wasn’t me who gave me his signet ring and insisted I wear it!’

‘It’s your job to keep me out of trouble. That’s what I pay you for!’ he snapped at her, like a piranha lunging for a meal.

She snapped right back at him. ‘Oh, and all this time I thought I was hired as your secretary, not your keeper! Silly me. Remind me to change the job description when I advertise for my successor tomorrow!’

‘What?’ He looked taken aback, his brows jerking together in a scowl.

‘I’m handing in my notice!’ she said, reckless enough at that moment to jump off the top of the building. She didn’t want to leave, of course; she certainly hadn’t planned to go. She loved her job, loved working at the radio station—her work was so various and stimulating, she never knew what she would be doing each morning when she came into work. She hated to admit it but she even loved working with Sam, except when he was in a bad mood; he was a good boss, he trusted her, left her with plenty of responsibility. She liked that, enjoyed the equality they usually shared. He let her speak her mind; he listened. They had a good relationship.

But since last night everything was different. He had changed the atmosphere between them—or had she? No, it was down to both of them. Last night it had been Sam who’d behaved badly, but she had been stupid to take the game so far this morning. She should just have given him back his ring and let the matter drop. Why had she been so stupid? Now everything had become too personal, too charged, and Natalie couldn’t cope with it. She wanted to get away.

Sam glowered at her. ‘We’ve had enough bad jokes for one day, Natalie!’

‘I’m not joking. I’m resigning. As of today,’ she told him, and got up to walk out. But Sam got up too, uncoiling that long, powerful body and making her back away. There was a sense of threat about him when he looked at you like that. Anyone with any sense got out of his way.

‘You’re doing nothing of the kind!’ he said through his teeth. ‘I need you.’

Her heart flipped at the words—what did he mean by that? Was he admitting that...? But then Sam went on talking, and her heart slowed again.

‘You’ve got to talk to my mother!’ he told her fiercely. ‘According to Jeanie, she’s planning some big party to celebrate our engagement. She’s even working out where we should get married, and when, and how many guests we ought to have. You must ring her at once and put a stop to it.’

Natalie was aghast. ‘How on earth did your mother find out about last night?’

‘Jeanie says it was in a gossip column. Somebody at the party must have rung a paper. If I ever find out who did it...’

“There were some press people at the party.’ Natalie groaned, her heart sinking. ‘I’d forgotten them. They were mostly columnists, too. Entertainment reporters and gossip columnists. Oh, why did you have to drink so much?’

‘I’m turning teetotal, don’t worry!’ Sam curtly said. ‘But never mind that now—I want you to ring my mother at once.’

‘Why me? It isn’t my problem. She’s your mother—you ring her.’ Natalie was indignant; he had made this muddle, it was up to him to get himself out of it. It certainly wasn’t her fault and she did not see why she should have to do his dirty work for him.

He made a face. ‘She’ll blame me and—’

‘You are to blame!’

He didn’t like the reminder, she saw that from his eyes—Sam had a low threshold where blame was concerned—but he used a soothing voice, trying to placate her, anything to get her to do what he asked. ‘I know, I know, but she’s going to get upset, and I can’t cope with my mother when she’s upset. She’ll start worrying about you—have I hurt your feelings? How could I do that to a nice girl like you? I should be ashamed of myself—’ He broke off, seeing her expression, and gave her a sulky look. ‘All right, all right. I admit she could have a point. I’ve apologised once, Natalie—how many more times do I have to do it?’

‘I didn’t notice you doing any apologising. You seemed to think it was my fault, not yours.’

‘Well, I apologise now. How’s that? I’m sorry. Okay? Now, please ring my mother—if you talk to her she’ll realise you haven’t got a broken heart. If you tell her it was all just a joke and you never for a second thought it was serious, you knew it was just fun and the Press got it all wrong, she’ll believe you. Especially if you’re cheerful and keep laughing.’ He looked at her through those thick black lashes. ‘And, after all, you said yourself you knew it was a joke and you never took it seriously. Didn’t you? So it won’t be a problem for you—you’ll only be telling the truth, won’t you?’

She gave him a dry look. He never missed a trick, did he? That was what made him such a brilliant organiser. That was why the radio station ticked along like a well-made clock. ‘Okay,’ she sighed. ‘I’ll ring her.’

‘Now, please,’ he said—before she could change her mind, he meant!

Natalie had his mother’s number in her computer. She dialled at once, wishing Sam wouldn’t hover like that; she could feel his agitation without looking at him. The phone rang and rang without anyone picking it up. ‘Nobody in,’ she said at last, hanging up.

‘I wonder where on earth she can be?’ Sam rhetorically asked her. His mouth turned down at the edges. ‘And what she’s up to! Once my mother gets an idea in her head she wastes no time. She loves organising parties. If we don’t stop her in time she’ll have sent out dozens of invitations and spent a fortune, and it will be expensive and embarrassing putting a stop to it.’

Natalie watched him without saying, this time, what she was thinking. She had told him it served him right several times already—no point in rubbing it in. Poor Sam. He wouldn’t forget Johnny’s party in a hurry, would he?


CHAPTER THREE

NATALIE’S lunch hour began at one o‘clock, but when she looked at the clock at five to one and said, ‘Nearly lunchtime!’ Sam glowered at her.

‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s clock-watching secretaries!’

He was still in a bad temper, but Natalie pretended not to notice. ‘I’m not clock-watching—I was reminding you that you’ve got a lunch appointment yourself. Had you forgotten?’

‘It’s been cancelled.’ He shrugged. ‘Hugh Sartfield’s secretary rang while you were doing those letters. Hugh has got mumps.’

Natalie couldn’t help laughing; there was something comical about the mere idea of mumps, although she knew it could be very painful.

Sam gave her a cold stare. ‘You wouldn’t think that was funny if you were a man!’

Sobering, Natalie nodded. ‘Sorry, yes, I know it can be serious for adults—poor Mr Sartfield. Let’s hope he doesn’t get any long-term effects.’

‘I spent a couple of hours with him only last week,’ Sam said, his hand rubbing one side of his face. ‘Mumps is very contagious, isn’t it? I wonder when the infectious period starts?’

‘I should ring your doctor,’ Natalie said, getting up.

‘I think I will. Hey, where do you think you’re going?’

‘Lunch.’ She wanted to get away before he could stop her, but in her hurry she tripped over her chair and couldn’t stop herself sprawling helplessly across the carpet To her fury she heard Sam laugh, then he bent, put an arm round her waist and hauled her to her feet.

‘That will teach you not to be in such a hurry!’ he said, still holding her, looking down into her face.

The fall must have knocked all the breath out of her body; she could feel her heart driving like a steamhammer inside her chest. She couldn’t meet his gaze; she simply pulled free from him. The last thing she wanted was for Sam to think she was flushed and breathing fast because of him! It was only the shock of falling over. Nothing to do with him at all.

She had dropped her bag when she fell. Bending to pick it up, she crossly realised that she had made an enormous run in her tights, right down the front from her knee to her slender ankle.

‘Oh, no!’ she muttered. She couldn’t go around with a run like that in her tights for the rest of the day. Before she went down to the canteen for lunch she would have to go out to buy some new tights.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sam asked, looking down at her legs. ‘You’ve got a run in—’

‘I know,’ she said curtly. ‘Can I go to lunch now?’

‘Oh, very well! But be back on time!’

She didn’t bother to answer that. It was already ten past one; she was taking her full hour, whether he liked it or not.

There was a useful corner shop just across the street, which did a good line in cheap tights. Although Natalie was well-paid she had learnt thrift at her mother’s knee and was always looking for ways to save money. She needed to; she had a mortgage on a small studio flat whose windows looked down over the harbour. That took far too much of her monthly salary and Natalie had to budget carefully where clothes and food were concemed. She never bought anything without being sure she couldn’t get it cheaper somewhere else.

Emerging two minutes later, tights safely stowed in her jacket pocket, Natalie ran back to the radio station as a car, a little red Ford saloon, drew up outside. Not even glancing at it, Natalie hurried past, intending to change her tights in the powder room next door to the canteen, only to stop in her tracks as someone called her.

‘Natalie!’

She spun, her sleek dark hair swinging against her cheeks, and felt her stomach sink as she recognised the woman emerging from the red car. Her once dark hair silvery, her figure no longer quite so slim, although she dressed in a traditionally elegant fashion that made a tendency to weight less obvious, Mrs Erskine was still a very attractive woman.

She had lost her husband when Sam was only sixteen—why had she never married again? Natalie wondered vaguely as she said, ‘Hello, Mrs Erskine! Sam has been trying to get in touch with you all morning!’

Tartly, Sam’s mother said, ‘I should think so, too! He ought to be ashamed of himself. Why did I have to hear about your engagement from someone else? He should have rung me first thing this morning! I tried ringing him but there was never any reply.’

But she smiled, too, and for the first time Natalie realised that her eyes were almost identical to Sam’s, a brighter grey, perhaps, yet the shape of them exactly the same. The bone structure of her face was more delicate, but there was a strong similarity in the way their eyebrows had that winged angle and the way they both smiled.

Putting an arm around Natalie, Mrs Erskine kissed her warmly on both cheeks. ‘But it’s wonderful, Natalie! I couldn’t be more pleased. If he had let me choose a girl for him it would have been someone just like you! He has gone out with some quite appalling girls in the past, but Sam’s taste has obviously improved!’

Laughing, flattered, secretly very touched, but knowing she had to quickly get in her explanation, Natalie stammered, ‘That’s very nice of you, Mrs Erskine, but...’

‘My dear, I mean every word of it!’

Flushed, Natalie said, ‘Thank you, but I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong impression...you see, it isn’t true—’

She never got to finish the sentence. Mrs Erskine interrupted again, laughing. ‘Of course it is, Natalie! You’re perfect for him. You’ve been the perfect secretary; he says so himself. Whatever sort of fool Sam has always been where women were concerned, at least he had the good sense to value you! And so did we... Me and my girls, Jeanie and Marie, we said to each other when we first met you that you would make Sam a wonderful wife, but we never dared hope he’d have the sense to ask you. I’m so thrilled that he finally did.’

She paused, and, pink as a geranium, Natalie sadly told her, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Erskine, but we’re not...not engaged. It was just a joke last night, at the party, you see—we’re not engaged at all.’

Mrs Erskine stared back at her incredulously. ‘Not?’

Natalie shook her head, looking away. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said, wishing she were somewhere else. Why had she let Sam talk her into breaking the news to his mother?

‘But it said in the newspaper...’ Mrs Erskine seemed to be having a problem taking it in.

Natalie sighed. ‘I know, there were some press people at the party—we had forgotten they were there—they weren’t in on the joke. They took it seriously... they thought it was for real...but we were just having fun and...’

‘Fun!’ Mrs Erskine erupted furiously. ‘I don’t see anything funny at all. I’ve just spent the morning organising a party for you—an engagement party. I’ve rung dozens of people...friends, relatives...and caterers, and ordered flowers and a big cake, and booked at the hotel... Hours of work, talking on the phone, driving around to see people! And now you tell me it was just a joke!’

Natalie whispered, ‘I’m so sorry.’ If Sam had appeared at that moment she thought she would have hit him with something very hard. How dared he do this to her? This was his mother, he had caused the problem—why was Natalie having to cope with the consequences?

‘Sorry!’ Mrs Erskine looked at her with rage in her eyes. ‘Sorry! What good is an apology to me? You’ve made me look a complete idiot, both of you. Everything is organised...’ She put both hands to her hair as if she was about to pull it out by the roots. ‘Oh, heavens, what on earth am I supposed to do? Ring everyone back and say, Sorry, it was just a joke? Everything is cancelled, just forget it? Do you really think they...the hotel, the florist, the caterer—any of them...are going to be amused?’

Put like that, Natalie could think of nothing to say. She bit her lip, gazing at Sam’s mother with embarrassed sympathy.

‘They will probably demand that I compensate them for their disappointment. A cancellation fee is quite usual these days, to stop people wasting their time—and I could hardly blame them if they suspected me of being a silly time-waster, now, could I?’

Feebly, Natalie murmured soothingly, ‘I’m sure they’ll understand when you explain.’

‘Of course they won’t! It’s going to be very awkward making all these calls—quite apart from the time wasted on both sides I’m going to feel very small.’

Before she could stop herself, Natalie said, ‘I’ll ring them and explain’ This afternoon, from the office—and as to any cancellation fees, well, if there are, Sam can pay. This is all his fault, anyway. Let him pay.’

She couldn’t keep a note of bitterness out of her voice and his mother looked sharply and thoughtfully at her.

‘You’re right’ Let him pay!’ she slowly said, then looked at her watch. ‘I tell you what, Natalie, let’s go and have lunch somewhere nice—how about the Sea King’s Cave, that seafood restaurant down on the harbour? Their seafood platter is delicious, and brilliantly presented on crushed ice with seaweed dressing-I love it, and so low-calorie, too. We can have lunch and talk, make out the list of people who must be rung immediately—all the professional people. I’ll deal with the family and the friends myself. I couldn’t ask you to make those calls.’

‘I’d love to, but Sam wants me back in the office by two, and there wouldn’t be time, I’m afraid,’ Natalie regretfully told her, glancing at her own watch. Twenty past one now! She would have to rush just to have lunch in the canteen—let alone eat down at the harbour.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/charlotte-lamb/lovestruck/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.