Secretary On Demand. Cathy Williams

      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      EPILOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘GUESS who’s here, Shannon!’

      Shannon paused for a second to look up at her friend who was contributing to the general chaos of the kitchens by balancing a large circular tray, laden with empty crockery, precariously above her shoulder on the flat of her hand.

      ‘Who?’ She flexed her fingers and grinned which was an open invitation for Sandy to deposit her tray on the stack of paperwork on the desk and lean forward with a conspirational gleam in her eyes. Sandy did amateur dramatics twice a week and devoutly believed that there was nothing in life that couldn’t benefit from elaborate gestures. She would never make it to the big screen.

      ‘Guess!’

      ‘I would if I thought that Alfredo would let us get away with playing a few guessing games when it’s pandemonium in here.’ On cue, Alfredo yelled something threatening from across the kitchen and was blithely ignored. ‘The Queen?’ Shannon hazarded. ‘A famous Hollywood star interested in sampling a more down-market venue in fashionable Notting Hill? Someone from the Lottery Board coming to present you with a cheque for several million pounds?’

      ‘He’s here!’ Sandy straightened up with a smug smile of satisfaction.

      ‘What on earth is he doing here at this time of day?’ Shannon felt a sudden little swell of excitement.

      ‘Watch it, kid, you’re going red in the face.’

      ‘Who is he with?’

      ‘No one. At the moment…’ Sandy allowed the tantalising titbit to drop. ‘But he’s requested two menus!’

      ‘We’re sad people, Sandy.’ Shannon stood up and smoothed down her calf-length black skirt. ‘Wasting our time speculating on someone we don’t know from Adam…’ Which wasn’t entirely true. They did know him, in a manner of speaking. The man had been coming in regularly to grace their eating establishment every morning, no later than seven, for months. In fact, almost as long as Shannon had been living in London, and there was a pleasurable familiarity about the routine.

      Of course, they had both given in to wild speculation about him.

      He was too aggressively good looking to ignore. His hair was very short and very dark and the sum total of his features added up to an impression of understated power that made their spectator sport of watching him virtually irresistible.

      ‘Where are you going, my little Irish friend?’ Sandy asked tartly. ‘Don’t you have a spot of important typing to be getting on with?’

      ‘I’ll just have a quick peek at him. See if he looks the same at lunchtime as he does first thing in the morning.’

      ‘You mean you think that his mascara might have smudged? Lippy worn off a bit? Facial T-zones looking a bit greasy and in need of a dash of Almond Beige pressed powder?’

      Shannon ignored her and quickly grabbed the cream and blue apron folded in the corner of her desk. She’d originally been hired as Alfredo’s secretary, to look after his books, do his typing, take phone calls and generally make sure that the nuts and bolts of the restaurant were well oiled and running smoothly, but the plan had gone pear-shaped on day three when one of the waitresses had failed to show up and she’d been requisitioned to help serve tables. Since then, Shannon had combined her well-honed secretarial skills with her newly discovered waitressing talents, donning an apron whenever the situation demanded, and always in the morning when the paperwork could be left for a couple of hours.

      By the time she had quickly slipped the apron over her head, Alfredo had appeared in all his five-feet-four, seriously corpulent Italian glory.

      He was one of the few men in the entire world, Shannon was sure, whose lack of height made it possible for her to address him on an eye-to-eye level.

      ‘Just taking over serving, Alfredo…’ Shannon looked meaningfully at her friend who was hovering to one side like a spare part. ‘Sandy’s hurt her foot.’

      ‘Don’t you tell Alfredo anything about the hurt foots, missy! The foots looked just fine when she came a running over to whisper to you when it is madness here and I am not paying her to have the little cosy chats when she should be taking orders! Don’t you two little missies think that Alfredo does not have the eyes at the back of the head! I see everything!’

      The hurt foot had been a good idea. It released Sandy’s barely contained lust for drama and she instantly shot into wounded mode, removing one shoe and tenderly touching her ankle as though it might explode at any minute if too much pressure was applied.

      Shannon took the opportunity to scuttle through the kitchen, pausing to glance at the orders stacked on the counter, then hustled outside into the restaurant.

      Yes, so what if she was sad? A sad twenty-five-year-old girl who had fled Ireland in a welter of misery and had grasped at the giggling normality of fantasising about a mysterious customer who had fired her imagination. Didn’t her imagination deserve to be fired after what she had been through? It was all a silly game but silly games had been just what her depressed soul had needed.

      She walked briskly over to his table and appeared to be startled at finding him there.

      If she had been Sandy, she would have been far more elaborate when it came to playing startled. Instead, she smiled with consummate politeness and said, ‘Oh! What a pleasant surprise to see you here at lunchtime, sir! Shall I take