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  My mobile pings. Jolted from my reverie, I retrieve it from my handbag and open a message from Marnie.

  Wish me luck! X

  Shit. I’d forgotten. She’s out today, on interview for another job. Hoping she managed to do a bit of preparation, I text back.

  Good luck! X

  It’s not long before I receive a reply.

  See you later. Hopefully celebrating. X

  I send her a smiley face, drop the mobile back into my bag and gaze down at the water line, focussing now on four rows of ancient brickwork, the only surviving reminder of the old docks. And I can’t help thinking of Soho. Our previous base. Patched up over the decades and unashamedly flawed, a world of grimy brick, uneven cobbles and cracked paving stones. I miss it more than I ever thought possible. Because back in Soho, I’d felt grounded. And here in Docklands, with the past hidden from view, I’m somehow completely lost.

  With a sigh, I finally give up on the contemplation and head into work. After weaving a path through the crowds on the plaza and dodging the traffic on Bank Street, I enter the shadows of the DelCorp Building, pass through security and ride a lift to the thirty-fifth floor. Which is where I pause for a few moments, glancing round in dismay at a nightmarish world of glass walls, glass doors and floor-to-ceiling windows...and wish I were anywhere but here.

  But I am here, I tell myself. At least for now.

  And there’s work to be done.

  I make for my office – one of several arranged around a central hub – and once there, after dumping the coffee cup on the desk, dropping the bag on the floor and taking off my jacket, I slump into my chair. A couple of minutes later, the office laptop’s fired up and I’m busy studying today’s to-do list: an editorial meeting at ten; structural notes to make on a new novel; sales figures to examine for the last quarter, ready for a meeting with Publicity and Marketing; talk to Design about revamping covers for Patricia Devine’s twenty-or-so previous titles. The list goes on and on. I’ll never get it all done in a day. And so, as usual, I number the items, most important first, and begin with sales figures. I’m loading a spreadsheet when I hear a cough and find Larry Price, erstwhile owner of Phillips, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Good weekend?’ he asks, bleary-eyed.

  ‘Fine. How about you?’ I grimace at the glass door, wishing it wouldn’t open quite so sneakily. ‘I thought you had a date.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Awful man. All mouth and no action.’

  I snigger quietly, thinking of my mystery lover. All action and no mouth. And then I give myself a mental slap, because I’ve let him back into my head. ‘I would have thought you’d be grateful for that at your age, Larry.’

  ‘Are you kidding me? At my age, I need action more than ever.’ He takes in a breath. ‘So, my little bird, did you see any?’

  A totally unprofessional question, of course, but it doesn’t bother me. Over the last few years, Larry’s become more of a naughty older brother than a boss. I’ve shared plenty with him in the past, but I’m not about to share with him now. Instead, I shake my head. ‘Just a load of reading.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  As if he’s weighing up the wisdom of his next question, he studies me for a second or two. And then he shrugs, deciding to ask it anyway. ‘So, how are things...at the minute?’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘You know. Things... I mean, it’s nearly a year.’

  I flick a biro across the desktop. Great. He had to go and mention it. Nearly a year. In fact, the anniversary’s coming up next week, and it’s something I’m not exactly looking forward to. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I glare at him, knowing exactly why he feels the need to ask. He’s noticed the changes in me – the bouts of anger, the days off ‘sick’, the obvious hang-overs. This isn’t the first time he’s checked in on my well-being, and it definitely won’t be the last.

  ‘You know, we should go out for a meal,’ he says. ‘Like we used to.’

  Desperate to get back to the good old days when I used to open up to him, he’s offering me a chance to talk – something he’s offered more than once over the past year, only to find himself rejected every single time.

  ‘Soon,’ I tell him.

  ‘Good.’ He smiles. ‘I miss you, my little bird.’

  I offer him a weak smile in return. It’s all I can do.

  ‘Anyway,’ he huffs, changing the subject. ‘It’s Marnie’s last week next week. And Jill’s. And Rob’s and Valerie’s.’

  The entire Children’s Books section, in fact. I grit my teeth, swallowing back the sudden urge to shout ‘Fuck Max Delaney and his swingeing cuts!’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So don’t forget drinks a week on Friday to say goodbye.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘And then there’s that thing at Delaney’s house.’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘Didn’t you get an invite? Drinks at the swish billionaire lair. A get-to-know-you session with the new owner.’

  ‘No invite.’

  ‘Checked your post?’

  ‘Not yet.’ I grimace. ‘Anyway, I don’t particularly fancy meeting Phillip Delaney.’

  ‘Darling, no one’s seen that man for months. I mean the spawn of Satan. Mad Max.’

  A groan escapes my lips. I pick up my coffee and take another swig.

  ‘I get the feeling it’s mandatory,’ Larry twitters.

  ‘Not for me.’ Because after giving Mad Max a dressing down on Saturday night, I’m determined to steer clear. ‘It’s outside of work hours. Not mandatory.’

  ‘But...’

  I raise a hand, halting him in his tracks. ‘There’s no point me meeting him. With any luck, I’ll be off to Miller and Howe soon enough. Now, if you don’t mind, some of us have actually got work to do.’

  Chapter Six

  I watch until Larry’s wandered back to his own office before I return to the spreadsheet. I’ve no idea how long I spend trawling through figures and making notes, but I’m almost finished when I hear movement.

  I look up.

  ‘Shit.’ Open-mouthed and desperate to gather my thoughts, I give my body a silent order to behave.

  ‘Good morning, Miss. Am I late for class?’

  With immediate effect – and prompted by the sound of that husky voice – my body disobeys the order and throws itself into disarray. While my heart-beat accelerates, my pulse launches into a quick sprint and every last bit of me dissolves into a tremble. I gawp at him like an idiot. He might be just as conceited as the last time we spoke, but he’s also freshly shaved, perfectly groomed and dressed in a tailor-made black suit that frames his body to perfection. All of which renders him twice as sexy, and me twice as horny. Taking a deep breath, I remind myself I can’t afford to get side-tracked by lust...because I’ve clearly been rumbled, and I’m definitely in trouble.

  ‘Do I get a detention?’ he asks, a twinkle in his eyes. ‘Lines, maybe?’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘Fuck indeed, Ella Fairbrother.’

  Oh, Christ. ‘You knew who I was?’

  ‘Of course.’ Predator-like, he approaches my desk. ‘You don’t think I’d buy a business without researching the employees?’

  So that explains it. Saturday night’s metamorphosis. Somewhere between bumping into me on the drive and being forced to sit at my table, he managed to put a name to my face, and then he became the boss. If he’d ever wanted anything, it was suddenly off the table. Instinctively, I cross my arms, as if that’s going to protect me.

  ‘Feeling nervous?’

  Of course I am. The Devil incarnate’s in my office, and there can only be one reason for that: he’s about to tell me to clear my desk. And yes, I’d love nothing more than to clear my desk, but not until I’ve secured a new position. After all, there are still bills to pay.

  ‘No,’ I lie, giving myself away with the quiver in my voice.

  ‘You thought you’d got away with it.’ He takes the seat opposite me, and adjusts his suit. Any sign of humour disappears. ‘Now, considering the fact we’re in full view of your work colleagues, I’d try to look a little more composed if I were you.’

  I swallow hard and scan the hub. Without exception, at least twenty people are trying their best to look busy. But every now and then, they’re all stealing glances in our direction.

  ‘When I leave,’ he says, ‘if anyone asks, you’ll say we met over the weekend at a party, and following up an interesting conversation about where Phillips is heading with the Romance line – I’m just checking in. Understood?’

  Biting back an urge to tell him to fuck off and take his arrogant, controlling attitude with him, I nod mutely. And then I wonder what the hell going on. Surely he’s about to sack me. So why the elaborate fiction about a ‘party’?

  He studies me coolly, then surveys my desk. Spotting my favourite paperweight, he picks it up and gives it a shake, watching as flakes of fake snow swirl around the lonely little figure inside – a young girl sitting on a bench, totally lost in a book.

  ‘Put that down,’ I snap, too irritated by half. I’ve just made it perfectly clear this bit of plastic crap means everything to me.

  With a knowing look, he does as he’s told. And then he leans back in his chair, eyeing me as if to say ‘what now’? And that does it. I sense a twinge between my thighs, a rush of blood to my cheeks, and suddenly I’m struggling to draw a decent breath. But I’m still determined to put him in his place. Uncrossing my arms, I lean forward and make a start.

  ‘You should have been honest with me. You should have called me out. You shouldn’t have let me...’ The sentence fizzles out.

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have let you insult me into the ground,’ he helps. ‘But you were only being honest, Miss Fairbrother, and honesty is something you clearly value.’

  ‘Well...’

  ‘I understand. It’s something I value too. After all, no one likes a liar.’

  ‘I was just...’ I wince.

  ‘Speaking truth to power?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Or talking complete bollocks?’ He glances back at the hub.

  ‘Well...’

  ‘You took a gamble. Assumed I sit in my gilded office paying no attention whatsoever to my staff.’

  ‘I didn’t think...’

  ‘Perhaps you’d had too much wine. Perhaps it made you reckless.’

  ‘Well...’ Spot on. And thankfully, he has no idea just how reckless it made me.

  ‘So, is there anything you’d like to say to me at this point?’ he demands. ‘And please don’t say ‘well’ again. It’s getting a little tedious.’

  Resolved not to give him the apology he’s angling for, I glare instead, and wonder if I should just inform him I’ll be out of here soon. But it’s always best to play your cards close to your chest. And with that in mind, I glare at him some more, increasingly aware of a growing sense of unease, born of something familiar about those lips. They’re full and sensuous...and they’re making me think of X.

  ‘Good God.’ Is Max Delaney my mystery lover? I boggle at the very thought of it, and then conclude he can’t be, because Max Delaney went home on Saturday night, well before the shenanigans kicked off. And even if he did stay – which he most probably didn’t – I distinctly recall a rugged growth on his chin, and my mystery lover was clean-shaven. ‘When did you shave?’ I blink, and blink again. Surely I didn’t just ask that.

  ‘Pardon?’

  Crap. It seems I did. ‘You’ve shaved,’ I falter. ‘Since Saturday night.’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  Drop it now, I urge him silently. Yes, I know I’ve just made a complete prat of myself, but now I’d really rather forget about it.

  ‘Why are you so interested?’ he demands, determined not to drop it at all.

  I shrug.

  After examining me closely, as if I’m some sort of lunatic, he decides to grace me with an answer. ‘This morning. Happy now?’

  ‘Yes.’ I wince again.

  ‘And do you want to know when I took a shower?’

  What? ‘No.’

  ‘Or washed my hands?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How about bodily functions?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Just wondering if you’re interested.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘I’m not the one being ridiculous. When did you last shave?’

  ‘You’re going too far.’

  ‘And you’d know all about that.’ He leans back again. ‘Now, this friend you ranted about. I take it you were referring to Marnie Little?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because according to the records, she’s a soon-to-be ex-employee, an unfortunate by-product of the merger. She also signed the guest book at the club...as did you.’

  ‘You looked?’

  ‘Of course. Which one is she?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘But it is my business. I bought it.’

  Fair enough. ‘She’s not here today. Out on interview.’

  ‘That’s handy. You can warn her to stick to the same story.’

  Saying nothing more, he gazes at me again, for a little too long, and with a new intensity that sends a shimmer of heat to my core.

  ‘So, she’s the friend of Christophe Dupont?’ he asks at last.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A little reminder: tell her to steer clear.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I said so.’

  And he thinks that’s enough? ‘Well, I’m very sorry, Mr Delaney, but Marnie can make her own decisions about the men she dates.’

  ‘Of course she can. But she needs to know...’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘What I told you on Saturday.’

  Oh, that. No explanation. No proof. Christophe Dupont’s a shit, and that’s that. Which reminds me, I really do need to ask a burning question. ‘Tell me something. If he’s such a shit, why exactly does he work for you?’

  ‘He’s good at his job. And no matter what I think of people on a personal level, I like to have the best working for me.’ Eyes flicker. ‘And that includes you. So, I’m not here to tell you to pack your bags. However, it does need to be said – speaking to your boss in that manner was highly inappropriate.’

  I’m bristling now, largely because no one speaks to me as if I’m a child. ‘It needed saying,’ I retort.

  ‘Maybe so, but sometimes it’s better to remain silent.’

  ‘And sometimes it’s better to let it all out.’

  His lips do their best to smile. He quickly puts an end to it, slipping the stern billionaire-mogul face back into position. ‘Don’t push me, Miss Fairbrother. I’m cutting you some slack, but don’t take it as a sign you can be over-familiar in the work-place, or anywhere else for that matter.’ He shifts his position. ‘Now, about Saturday night.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You signed a legally binding agreement. I’d just like to remind you of that. I have a public persona to maintain, and I’d appreciate it if you could control that smart mouth of yours.’

  Another bristle. ‘Rude.’

  ‘Inappropriate.’

  ‘Are you done?’ I ask tartly. Because I’ve had enough of being put in my place. ‘It’s just I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘The way you speak to me, anyone would think you don’t care for your job.’

  ‘I don’t care for my job. I care for my career.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Oh, now he’s asking for it. ‘I joined a publishing house that actually valued books. You value nothing but profit. When your company swallowed up Phillips, it was the beginning of the end.’

  ‘How insightful.’ He glances at the snow globe. ‘I take it you’re seeking employment elsewhere?’

  I remain silent. But it’s a waste of time, seeing as he’s already worked out the answer.

  ‘Shame,’ he says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because like I said, you’re good at what you do. Excellent, in fact. I want you to stay on board.’

  And I might as well give him the truth. ‘Well I’m very sorry, Mr Delaney, but I’m jumping ship.’

  ‘Something in the pipeline?’

  ‘That really is none of your business. All you need to know is I don’t care for DelCorp. I’ll be off your hands in the near future.’

  ‘What if I don’t want you off my hands?’

  ‘It’s not your choice.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  I pull back suddenly, and frown. I’m not entirely sure I just heard that right. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I say.’ With a dismissive shrug, he gets to his feet. And before I can pursue the ‘we’ll see’ thing any further, I’m hit with an indifferent curve ball. ‘Are you free on Thursday night?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Are...you...free...on Thursday night?’ he repeats slowly, as if he’s addressing a complete dimwit.

  But the question makes even less sense the second time I hear it. ‘What for?’

  ‘Dinner.’

  ‘What?’ A veiled threat followed by a dinner invite? This is madness. If I’m not much mistaken, he’s revised his opinion on the whole boss-employee thing and decided to seduce me. ‘With you?’