The Only One

‘I like that,’ he told her softly, still smiling. ‘I like knowing that I can make you respond to me, and that no man has ever touched you or kissed you the way I was just doing. They haven’t, have they Brooke?’

She wanted to deny his arrogantly self-assured claim; to tell him that just because she was a virgin it didn’t mean she had no sexual experience at all, but caution intervened. Adam had more than enough experience to know when she was lying; her almost adolescent reaction to him was hardly that of an experienced woman; and she doubted that he would be very impressed by the inept fumblings of her early teenage years, dismissing them with the same mocking contempt that he would use to decimate her lies, if she was foolish enough to speak them.

‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘but it won’t happen again, Adam. I don’t want to see you again….’

‘You haven’t been asked,’ he reminded her tauntingly, adding. ‘I can let myself out. Sleep well won’t you?’

He had been gone for over ten minutes before Brooke could rouse herself sufficiently to go down and let Balsebar out of the kitchen. The dog was patently aggrieved, almost as though it was her fault he had been incarcerated there in the first place. Which in a way it was Brooke admitted, opening the back door to let him out. In the cool darkness of the autumn evening her skin heated betrayingly—thank goodness she was never likely to see Adam Henderson again she reflected, as Balsebar emerged from the garden and followed her inside. She wouldn’t let herself think about what might have happened if he hadn’t recognised her virginal inexperience. His mood hadn’t been kind when he had manhandled her into the bedroom and she shivered, recognising that he could be a very dangerous enemy if he chose to be. But not her enemy; not anything in her life except an error of judgment she had made which had had potentially embarrassing repercussions. Know your own limitations my girl, she chided herself as she locked the back door … don’t jump into deep water like that again. Now it was difficult to conjure up the feeling of antagonism that had urged her to confront him in the first place; in fact the entire episode, from meeting him to his leavetaking tonight, already seemed to be part of a dream; totally unreal and inappropriate to her normal everyday life.

Forget him, she urged herself as she prepared for bed. Forget him, and concentrate on how you’re going to support yourself from now on.

The Lodge was hers outright and she had a bank balance of some few thousand pounds. That her solicitor thought she was mad to donate what was left of the purchase money from Abbot’s Meade to the local children’s hospital she knew quite well, but they were doing research there on all forms of children’s cancer and from the conversations with her uncle’s doctor Brooke knew how badly they needed extra funds. She could get herself a job; she was old enough and intelligent enough to support herself, unlike those poor children. A job … she sighed … she would have to start looking round, although she suspected that Sam was right when he said that a secretary of her calibre was hardly likely to find a suitable position locally.

Not even to herself was she prepared to admit that she might be using her mental busyness concerning her lack of employment to cover deeper and even more disturbing thoughts. That Adam Henderson had affected her as no man had ever done before, she could not deny, but she certainly wasn’t prepared to admit that there was anything especially significant in the fact that he had done so; it had simply been a question of fate running with him and against her, and she doubted that he was ever likely to have exactly that dynamic effect on her ever again.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_e99eb330-985d-535c-b951-35a0310b381b)

‘COME on now, Uncle Sam, give. You were very mysterious on the telephone this morning. What’s all this about you finding a job for me?’

They were sitting in Sam Brockbank’s office in the small market town of Abbot’s Meade. The office was as familiar to Brooke as the rooms of Abbot’s Meade itself, and she surveyed the untidy clutter with a rueful smile as she watched her solicitor shuffle the untidy piles of paper on his desk.

‘Well it isn’t so much that I’ve found you a job,’ he told her cautiously, ‘it’s more that I’ve been approached to tell you that one exists, if you are interested.’

‘Mysteriouser and mysteriouser,’ Brooke quipped lightly, ‘Don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me all about it.’

She had dressed for her meeting in one of the neat suits she had worn during her London days—a soft melding of pink and blue tweeds that should have clashed horribly with her hair but did not, her cream silk blouse a perfect foil for her pale skin.

‘The chairman of Hart Enterprises is looking for a PA, and apparently he’s prepared to offer you the job.’

‘Just like that?’ Brooke raised her eyebrows. She had heard of Hart Enterprises first when she worked for the advertising agency and its chairman had the reputation of being particularly ruthless. Hart Enterprises never carried dead or excessive wood, and she could think of no single reason why she should be invited to join the staff. She was a good secretary, with first rate qualifications and excellent speeds and she knew that her last boss had been sorry to lose her, but surely Hart Enterprises already employed a dozen or more girls equally as skilled as she was herself. Unless of course the chairman was the sort of ogre who demolished secretaries for breakfast.

She watched Sam clear his throat, avoiding her eyes as he re-shuffled his papers. Apparently he’s heard about you in the City … and when I mentioned that you were looking for a job….’

‘He jumped at the opportunity to take me on to his staff?’ Brooke supplied drily. It wasn’t impossible that he might indeed have heard of her; the agency did a considerable amount of work for Hart Enterprises, but she suspected that Sam was the one who was responsible for the unexpected job offer. ‘It’s very good of you Sam,’ she told him, softening her firmness with a slight smile, ‘but I don’t intend to rely on the “old boy network” to get myself a job….’

‘Nothing of the kind,’ her solicitor was quick to assure her. ‘He genuinely does want an assistant, Brooke. Although Abbot’s Meade will need to have a great deal of work done on it before it’s ready to operate as the Corporation’s headquarters, the chairman plans to move into the Dower House almost immediately and supervise both the work and his business interests from there. That’s why he was so keen to interview you. Apparently his present secretary is expecting a baby and on the point of leaving.’

‘Well, I don’t suppose it would do any harm to attend the interview,’ Brooke agreed, knowing that she was weakening, but the job sounded far too promising for her to dismiss out of hand. From the little her solicitor had told her about it, it sounded just the sort of challenge she was in need of right now to take her mind off losing Abbot’s Meade, and … other things.

‘If you’re interested, an interview’s been arranged for this afternoon.’

‘Short notice isn’t it?’

‘Apparently the chairman’s pretty anxious to get things moving. He doesn’t like hanging around, waiting for things; wasting time….’

‘So I’ve heard,’ Brooke agreed dryly, searching her memory for any scraps of information stored there regarding her potential employers. Hart Enterprises’ reputation was a first-rate one; their work highly acclaimed; one of their specialities was the renovation of old houses such as Abbot’s Meade, and indeed that had been one of the factors that had encouraged her to sell to Hart Enterprises in the first place. The job did sound tempting, but she wasn’t too sure if she was happy with the fact that Uncle Sam had apparently pushed her forward as a candidate for it. Telling herself that she had nothing to lose in attending the interview she bid him goodbye, and emerged from the gloomy clutter of his office into the bright November sunshine.

The autumn had been a dry one, and the rich colours of autumn leaves gathered in drifts in the gutters. Repressing a childish temptation to swish through them, Brooke headed through the small town square to the municipal car park where she had left her bike.

As always her progress was impeded by several people wanting to chat to her about the sale of the house and its possible implications for the town.

‘Should bring in a sight more business,’ one matron told Brooke, ‘they say they’re going to turn the stables into flats for them as works up at the house?’

Gently parrying the question Brooke hurried on her way. She had heard that Hart’s intended to convert the old stable block into mews apartments and the drawings she had been shown had depicted a very attractive conversion, with the old stable yard still retaining its cobbles but decorated with tubs of flowers and turned into a communal garden.

It was lunchtime before she got back to the Lodge, her progress delayed by the swift passage of a black Ferrari, taking up more than its fair share of the drive. It was being driven too fast for her to see the driver, and as she was forced to wait before turning into the drive Brooke reflected that such inconveniences were something she was going to have to get used to.

After eating a light lunch she took Balsebar out for his walk. In the past she had always let him run loose in the park, but now she decided against this—after all the grounds were no longer hers, and instead clipped on his lead and took him over the stile into the fields beyond which had once belonged to Abbot’s Meade, as part of the home farm but which had long ago been sold off.

A bare, golden stubble decorated the fields, birds scratching amongst it for food. The hedgerows shone scarlet with berries and as she drew in lungfuls of clean, fresh air, Brooke decided that she was not sorry not to be returning to London.

Back at the Lodge she brushed her hair, and reapplied her make-up, changing out of the jeans and sweater she had worn to walk Balsebar, back into her tweed suit.

Although she normally enjoyed the walk from the Lodge to the house, on this occasion she felt very tense. If the chairman of Hart Enterprises was as formidable as his reputation suggested she didn’t want to arrive wind-blown and hot, As she walked up to the house Bill Edwards watched her from an upstairs window, sighing faintly and glancing at his watch. When Adam had told him what he had arranged he had been dumbfounded. Adam’s affairs were legion; common knowledge among his senior staff, but this was the first time in all the years that Bill had known him that he had ever contemplated mixing business with pleasure.

Whatever her other attributes might or might not be Brooke Beauclere was certainly a very, very attractive woman, Bill thought appreciatively watching the elegant swing of her body as she walked towards the building. She carried her height well, and her stride was that of a woman who feels confident and at home with her body. Oh yes, he could well understand why Adam was so keen to pursue the chase, but Adam was notorious for his cold detached view of everything he did. Once he had captured his prey he would no longer be interested in her—that was what always happened—but if the woman was employed by Hart Enterprises?

Sighing Bill turned his attention back to studying the resume which had arrived by special messenger only half an hour ago. Reading it he couldn’t help but be impressed by Brooke’s qualifications. She appeared to have all the attributes necessary to make a first rate PA, but he doubted, after seeing that flaming banner of red hair, that she could match Adam’s clinical detachment once their affair was over.

Having knocked on the door and been told to enter, Brooke was slightly surprised to be confronted by a mild-looking man in his early thirties, who responded to her evident surprise with a slight smile.

‘Bill Edwards,’ he introduced himself, ‘I’m sorry that out chairman can’t interview you himself. He’s been called away on urgent business, but I am empowered to offer you the job, provided we can both agree that you and it are well matched. Please sit down.’

The interview was a pleasant one. He asked Brooke a little about the history of the house, which she willingly told him.

‘There’s always a sense of sadness at the passing of these old families,’ he sympathised when she had explained that her uncle had been the last male Meade, ‘although presumably if you had a son the title could be revived?’

‘I should think so, but it’s hardly important,’ Brooke told him. ‘I believe Mr Hart intends to occupy the Dower House himself?’

Noting the ‘Mr Hart’ Bill frowned slightly. He had been pretty sure that during the cocktail party Adam had made arrangements to see the girl again. She didn’t look like the type well-schooled in deception and the ‘Mr Hart’ had tripped naturally off her tongue. Neither, now that he had a closer look at her, did she resemble Adam’s normal conquests. Her chin was too determined somehow, and she met his look quite frankly and openly. ‘How do you think you will like working for Mr Hart?’ he questioned her thoughtfully, watching her reaction.

‘I’m not really sure—not having met him, but if he’s prepared to take me on as his PA sight unseen, then….’

Suppressing a sigh Bill wondered if he ought to tell her that she most certainly had met ‘Mr Hart’, and then decided against it. Coward, he taunted himself, as he wound up the interview, but Adam had left him with specific instructions. He wanted Brooke Beauclere as his PA.

When he mentioned Brooke’s salary, naming the same sum as Adam’s present PA earned Brooke raised her eyebrows and looked rather stunned. ‘That’s very generous, isn’t it?’ she queried.

‘It’s exactly what Betty—Mr Hart’s present PA earns.’

‘But surely that’s with a London weighting allowance….’

Bill laughed. ‘You’re the first prospective employee I’ve ever interviewed who’s tried to negotiate her salary downwards.’ He found himself liking her more and more, and worrying more and more about her ability to cope with Adam, but felt honour-bound not to say anything to her. Adam was his boss and a good one, he owed him his loyalty and his livelihood.

‘There’s just one thing,’ he said as he stood up to escort Brooke to the door. ‘Mr Hart would like you to start here on Monday morning. It’s extremely convenient having you living at the Lodge. He’ll be moving into the Dower House over the weekend and initially you’ll be working from there….’

‘But the place is practically derelict,’ Brooke told him. ‘It’s been empty since our last tenants left and that’s three years ago.’

‘We’re moving in a team to check it over today. Just as long as A … Mr Hart can have a terminal set up linked to our main computer he can work, although I believe he intends to supervise the renovations here himself. You don’t think you’ll find that too painful?’ He was making a last ditch attempt to dissuade her from taking the job, without being seen to do so, Bill acknowledged, but Brooke shook her head. ‘Sentiment of that kind is something I can’t afford right now,’ she told him simply, extending her hand to shake his. On her feet, she was an inch or so taller than he was himself, Bill thought ruefully, beautifully composed, and coolly remote; the thought of what Adam could and probably would do to that fragile shell of hauteur made him cringe in anticipation of her pain, but there was nothing he could do about it, and for the first time since he had come to work for Adam, he found himself almost actively disliking him.