Bittersweet Yesterdays. Kate Proctor
towards hers. ‘That means we can dispense with all these boring preliminaries and get down to the really advanced business.’
And there was nothing in the least preliminary about his kiss. His mouth possessed hers with a practised thoroughness that startled her into a complete lack of resistance to the probing invasion of his tongue. But it wasn’t simply the instantly intoxicating effect of his mouth on hers that she had to contend with, it was also the debilitating excitement caused by the hands that had somehow found their way beneath her sweater and to which her flesh responded as though to high voltage, intensely pleasurable blasts of electricity.
These were Mark’s lips burning against hers with such swiftly soaring passion, her crazily spinning senses tried to warn her; and Mark’s hands moving with such inflammatory effect against her flesh and making her feel more acutely conscious of being a woman than she ever had in her life before.
‘No!’ She tore herself free, staggering backwards from him, her hands rising to cover her face in a gesture of sheer panic as she battled to regain her senses.
It had taken all the strength of will she possessed to drag herself free from the mesmerising spell of his touch, and it was the mere fact that it had been necessary for her to conjure up such a strength that was terrifying the wits out of her.
‘Lucy, don’t you dare go throwing a wobbly on me,’ warned Mark, his voice oddly strained despite the aggression in its tone. ‘I’m perfectly aware that I stepped way out of line—and I’m sorry.’
She spread her fingers open against her face, peeping through them at him, but far too wary of what her own voice might betray for her to dare attempt speaking.
‘You’re just going to have to learn to stop riling me like that,’ he exploded accusingly, ‘especially now you’ll be working for me.’
Lucy’s hands dropped from her face in a fury of indignation that swept all other considerations from her mind.
‘That’s a great apology—telling me it’s my fault for riling you,’ she exclaimed angrily. ‘Since when have I ever opened my mouth and not managed to rile you? And now you order me to work in close proximity with you! What are you—some sort of masochist? I haven’t the first idea what being a secretary entails, but I’m sure that’ll make it all the more fun for you!’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean?’ he roared. ‘For God’s sake, one of the few courses you managed to survive was at that ludicrously exclusive—not to mention extortionately expensive—secretarial college you went to!’
‘Yes, but you obviously didn’t read any of the reports—’
‘I wasn’t interested in the damned reports—just as long as they didn’t sling you out,’ he interrupted harshly. ‘I was under the impression they gave you certificates when you left,’ he added, frowning.
‘Yes—one for elementary typing and another for shorthand at fifty words a minute,’ she retorted, knowing that such information would probably be double-Dutch to him.
‘So—what’s the problem?’ he enquired, his tone suspicious as his frown deepened.
Lucy opened her mouth to inform him that there were probably several typists in the company who could type twice as fast as she had once been able to take down shorthand—most of which she had probably forgotten anyway—then had second thoughts. She had taken the course simply to learn the basic typing skills she felt would be a useful tool in her ambition to write and for that reason had never regretted it, but, though her speed had improved markedly, there was no guaranteeing it wouldn’t collapse with Mark standing over her.
‘You can’t be that bad,’ he muttered, doubt resonant in his tone, ‘otherwise you’d have flitted off to another department, as you did with such monotonous regularity when you first started here.’
‘You’re wrong—I can be that bad,’ she informed him with gloating satisfaction. ‘Though, to be fair, even though I’m slow, I’m painstakingly accurate when it comes to complicated figure work—that’s why they dump all those mind-bogglingly boring specifications and the like on me.’
He gave her a wary, speculative look, pursing his lips as he did so.
Lucy found her eyes drawn irresistibly to his mouth, a strident excitement exploding through her as she relived the sensation of that mouth on hers—not pursed as it was now, as though for a chaste kiss, but open and uninhibited in its hungry exploration. She gave a sharp toss of her head in an attempt to clear it of the madness of such thoughts and felt the colour sting hotly against her cheeks.
‘OK—so you’re slow but accurate,’ exclaimed Mark brusquely, dragging his fingers through his hair with a gesture of weary impatience. ‘Lucy, we’ve really got to do something about clearing the air between us. I know you’ll probably not believe this, but I’ve been meaning to get around to having a talk with you ever since I arrived, but I’ve simply not found the time.’
Lucy’s look of sceptical disbelief was lost on him as he glanced down at his watch.
‘Look—let’s get your bits and pieces up here, then we can take an early lunch.’
Without waiting for her reply, he strode over to his desk and got his jacket. Lucy watched as he shrugged his broad shoulders into it, her mind racing frantically.
‘Well, come along, then,’ he urged, opening the door and glowering impatiently as he waited for her to make a move to go through it.
‘I...Mark, I’m not eating in the staff canteen with you,’ she burst out anxiously.
‘Who mentioned the canteen? There’s a good Italian place round the corner, where they usually manage to find me a table.’
He was the sort of man for whom most restaurants probably always managed to find a table, even if it meant turfing some other poor devil out, thought Lucy resentfully.
‘Lucy!’
‘Mark, I—’
‘Shift yourself!’ he snapped, grasping her by the arm and propelling her forcibly through the door.
‘I’m perfectly capable of getting my own things,’ she hissed at him in the lift, her eyes studiously avoiding his scowling features.
‘Are you?’
‘Yes! And I—’ She broke off with a squeak of protest as she was virtually shoved through the lift doors before they had finished opening. ‘Stop treating me like this!’ she raged, trying in vain to twist free of his grasp as he marched her towards the general typing offices. ‘I was perfectly happy here until you spoiled it all by turning up.’ She glanced up at his glacial features as he marched her relentlessly on, her heart sinking as she realised she was going to have to humiliate herself by pleading with him. ‘Mark—even you must realise how odd people are going to find this,’ she wailed.
‘Find what odd?’ he demanded.
‘For heaven’s sake—you’re practically God around here! People are bound to—’
She gave a strangled gasp as he halted unexpectedly and spun her round to face him.
‘OK, Lucy, spit it out—what exactly is your problem?’
‘I...well, if you must know, no one knows you’re my stepbrother...well, no one apart from the executives, as far as I know,’ she stammered, then added venomously, ‘I certainly haven’t told anyone!’
Her eyes widened in total disbelief as he began chuckling softly to himself.
‘Don’t tell me you’re actually worried what it might do to your reputation, being seen hob-nobbing with the—”alley-catting” was the term I believe you used—boss. My, that is a problem, sweetheart.’
‘Don’t you dare call me sweetheart!’ she shrieked, then clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes flying with stricken concern to the door